Reflections

There is a lake nearby, only a couple of miles down the road from town. Our parents used to take us, when we were really small, and watch from the sides as we splashed around in the shallows. We swam for the first time. Shrieking and gasping, our short baby fingernails caked in dirt from where we’d scratched at the waterbed in a wild heart-stopping panic.

“Now that wasn’t so bad was it,” our mothers would whisper later when we’d been pulled out of the dark water and wrapped in a pair of warm soft arms.

We shook our heads, “No…”

We got older, all of us, and soon our parents no longer sat at the side lines. We’d go every summer, every day. Someone tied a rope from one of the branches overlooking the water and we all had a go. Swinging through the air, the wind blowing our wet skin dry. We wanted to live forever.

You’re not supposed to go in the dark but we did. He took our hand, held our purse as we hopped the fence. It was always the same, for all of us. Sitting by the water, dangling our toes, head fuzzy from those funny drinks he’d made us have earlier.

“I love you, you know you’re the one.”

His hand, inching slowly up our thighs.

“No one has to know…” 

He got angry when we said no. Ripped our shorts off. Did it anyway. Forced our heads too hard against a rock. Rolled us into the water in a guilty panic. His fingernails caked with mud from the riverbed. No one found us ‘til morning. 

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Inspired by 'Reflections, Weston-On-The-Green' by George Davison (1899)