There was nothing but water as far as the eye could see, mirroring
everything that got close to its body. Speckles of dazzling light were
shimmering above the liquid surface. Her eyes could barely open,
blinded by the glaring light. She stared at the horizon, a hand raised
across her forehead, a vain attempt to provide herself with some
much-needed shade. As she looked around, she realized there was
nothing beyond the blurred line but the embrace of sky and water.
Nothing but the contemplation of the present time. No yesterday, no
tomorrow. We'll stay forever this way.
The sailboat was gently gliding on the so-far untouched skin. She
reached out to the water, far across the distance, gently caressing its
surface, as one would pet a cat. She slid her fingers in slowly, plunging
her delicate hand until it was fully immersed. In the cold water, she
wiggled her fingers – it must have been hours. Long ago, her skin turned
pruney: whitened and wrinkly. As she submerged her entire arm, she felt
her locks of wavy hair soak, and her ear graze the cold water. The sea was
calling out to her. The whales' song was closing the breach between the
vastness of their bed and her bodily offering. For a brief moment, she
wondered if gills would form in the hollow of her neck. She wondered
whether she would become a seahorse or coral, fleeting or crystallized.
The voluptuous undulations of the boat were lulling her to sleep.
In this suspended time, she recalled a photograph
she took of her mother, her fragile body flickering
in front of the sea. That was the last memory she
had of her, conscious.
She woke up thirsty, still lying on the edge of the
boat. Her body was a shipwreck, her heart was
fathomless. She took a deep breath and dove into
the water, fainting in the immensity of its darkness.
You are safe in my heart.
- Body of water, Raphaëlle Cormier