Swing, back and forth, the sun hot on my thighs, swing, the water is rushing beneath me, toes brushing cold, dirt, hands rough on the rope, pebbles and stones beneath my feet, swing, swing, swing, back and forth, twirl and twist, push off the bank and close your eyes, spin, swing, water underneath your feet.
“Anna!”
Don’t listen to mother’s voice, don’t, don’t, look at the water and push off the bank, dislodge a pebble, hear the branches and the leaves and the water, what does it sound like underwater? Silence? Screaming? Screaming, don’t think about screaming, branches and sun and cold water on your toes.
“Anna, lunch!”
Hair in my face, I don’t care. Back and forth, the water, leaves, ebb and flow, ebb and flow, the wet smell of rocks, the creaking of the rope. What if I let go? Would I hit my head on a rock, blood and air in the water, screams?
Close your eyes, don’t think about that, the rope rough in my hands, sun hot on my thighs. Mother’s voice, thin and high like reeds and screams and sticks and needles. Lunch? I’m not hungry, though my stomach is as empty as the rest of me. Water, listen to the water, the smell of the earth, swing, back and forth, push off the bank again and again and again and again.
Is this what the planets feel like, spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning? What does drowning feel like, drowning in a cold black sea of empty stars? Eyes closed, hot sun, hair loose, breathe, breathe in air and not water.
“Anna!” Shrill and high, a flute.
“She’s getting over her grief, leave her alone.” My father, oak-strong and solid.
And another voice, the burble of the river, the rustle of the leaves, the creaking of the rope as it rubs against the branches.
Anna.
Spin, spin, open mouth, Jane? Water, is her face in the water? When you drown, where do you go?
“Let’s head inside,” a rumble, an arm around shoulders, a door shutting, an empty porch.
Swing, spin, push, pull, twist, turn.
Anna.
Jane?
Anna.
Everything. The leaves, the rocks, the swing, the hot sun, everything, everything, but the river, she is calling me from the river.
Anna.
The rope is rough beneath my hands -
Anna.
- and I let go.