Body of water
By Raphaëlle Cormier
There was nothing but water as far as the eye could see, mirroring everything that got close to its body. Speckles of dazzling light were shimmering above the liquid surface. Her eyes could barely open, blinded by the glaring light. She stared at the horizon, a hand raised across her forehead, a vain attempt to provide herself with some much-needed shade. As she looked around, she realized there was nothing beyond the blurred line but the embrace of sky and water. Nothing but the contemplation of the present time. No yesterday, no tomorrow. We’ll stay forever this way.
The sailboat was gently gliding on the so-far untouched skin. She reached out to the water, far across the distance , gently caressing its surface, as one would pet a cat. She slid her fingers in slowly, plunging her delicate hand until it was fully immersed. In the cold water, she wiggled her fingers – it must have been hours. Long ago, her skin turned pruney: whitened and wrinkly. As she submerged her entire arm, she felt her locks of wavy hair soak, and her ear graze the cold water. The sea was
calling out to her. The whales’ song was closing the breach between the vastness of their bed and her bodily offering. For a brief moment, she wondered if gills would form in the hollow of her neck. She wondered whether she would become a seahorse or coral, fleeting or crystallized.
The voluptuous undulations of the boat were lulling her to sleep. In this suspended time, she recalled a photograph she took of her mother, her fragile body flickering in front of the sea. That was the last memory she had of her, conscious.
She woke up thirsty, still lying on the edge of the boat. Her body was a shipwreck, her heart was fathomless. She took a deep breath and dove into the water, fainting in the immensity of its darkness. You are safe in my heart .