Undertow

The lake holds what we've forgotten— soft voices beneath the surface, coins and wishes sinking in spirals. My sister's laugh echoes from the dock, dissolving into ripples that reach the far shore.

Years collapse like wet paper. I stand in the same shallow water, but I'm deeper now, weighed down, a different current moving through my bones. The cold doesn't feel like memory anymore.

Stones on the bottom wear smooth from the endless friction of waves. Everything becomes soft eventually— edges dulled, sharp hurts rounded into something almost like forgetting.

Still, I wade in. Still, I listen for her voice calling from where the water turns dark, from the place where light stops reaching the bottom.