I used to be afraid of water, certain that I would drown
I don't want it near my face, for the feeling makes me flinch
Flinching in fear, waiting to drown
A fear that's drifted within me since childhood
Ever since my grandmother put me in swim classes
Because she couldn't stand the water near her face
Today, from my mother, I learned why
A father that evaporated like a summer's rain
Who would cleanse her of her sins in the lake yonder
Each splash drenching what was already emaculate
A father who praised God more than she
I've never seen my grandmother swim
Only wade through shallow waters
I used to be afraid of water, for I have waded my whole life
Two generations of sinking behind me, but I will swim
My grandmother was the youngest of 10 children born to a father who was 64 years old. She spent most of her life trying to escape her rural upbringing.
The aversion towards water is fact but is also a metaphor for trauma and my family's inability to escape their past and move beyond their comfort zone. This poem was inspired by a real conversation with my mother who is a PTSD sufferer.
