Again

I’ve come to associate the ocean with death. I almost drowned, once, when I was a child. The undertow captured me, seafoam shackling my ankles, and I was dragged underneath murky water that stung my eyes. My hair was plastered over my nose and mouth while the waves jostled my body like a puppet at the mercy of a particularly malicious puppeteer. If my dad hadn’t grabbed me by the wrist, then I probably would have died in a few feet of water. Since then, I’ve always been terrified of drowning, but that isn’t why I believe “ocean” is synonymous with “loss.” Sure, I had a beachball or two drift away to the horizon and, yes, I’ve had slices of stringy cheese pizza stolen by greedy, beady-eyed seagulls, but again, those aren’t the reasons.

When I watch waves tumble like clumsy children and feel water numbing my toes while the sun boils my face, I remember my dogs. I don’t have any siblings, so they became my adoptive brothers. Max, the broad-shouldered sensitive soul with a sensitive stomach. Ronan, the Barbie-doll-destroyer who let me dress him in old clothes and too-small Halloween costumes. Phoenix, the neurotic goofball with a bad heart, trotting after my mother and vibrating with excitement when he saw my father. We lost them one at a time. After every death, my parents and I drove to the beach. Maybe because we were reminded of Max and Ronan’s hydrotherapy, or Phoenix’s love of boats, or simply because my father has always found comfort in the water. Sometimes heavy gray clouds poured, sometimes the sun reigned. All weather infuriated me. What right did the sun have to continue burning? What right did the heavens have to mourn someone that they hadn’t known?

At the beach, I let the sea breeze caress my cheek and pretend that, despite the chill, the wind is one of my dogs’ warm exhales. When I stare at the ocean, which appears to come to an abrupt stop at the horizon, I remember how the Earth is round and that water has no end. Paralysis might have overtaken Max and Ronan while lymphoma left Phoenix bony with a gurgling stomach, but only their bodies are gone. Perhaps, to keep my sanity, you think that I’ve deluded myself into believing that my dogs’ souls still live. Maybe I have, but in the static sound of the ocean lapping against the shore, I know that my dogs are with me, even if a poor signal forbids me from hearing the frequency of the dead. I will see my brothers again. “This isn’t goodbye forever,” I’d said to Phoenix, mere weeks ago, my face buried in his side. “It’s goodbye for now. See you soon, buddy.”

Natalia Salinas

(she /her)

Inspired by Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights