Water Gesture

Water Gesture

The sunshine tasted hard that Sunday morning. It was more acidic than the lukewarm glass of orange juice on the table. Outside of the window, the wind was at rest, holding a sunken grudge on the flowers. After long intervals of time they dipped gently to the side, stubborn and unwilling to go any further. It was a lazy sort of day that was full of urgencies I didn’t want to address. After spending a fantasy summer in the country, it was difficult to leave. The only way I could justify leaving was to count the advantages of the city. I got up to two.
Those few unforgettable nights when you’re dazzled by the city lights, which blaze in and out of consciousness like fireflies. The smell of Japanese food across the street that gets your teeth swimming in saliva, met with the flamboyant flash of a sign in random Chinese characters that make no sense together—or in the window at all because it’s an “authentic” Japanese restaurant. The second advantage was more abstract, more of an occurrence than a feeling. It was the noise that kept you company. If nothing else did, the whoops and hollers of drunks wandering the streets would certainly do the job. Then there was the infamous dog barking nonstop for no reason to the symphony of police sirens in the background. Mixed with the silver jazz-inspired piano compositions by my upstairs neighbor, these sounds became my lullaby.
The urgency to finish packing began biting at me like an angry dog at my heels, as I continued remembering. It was odd how two thoughts suddenly made me miss home.
I knew I would miss here more. I absolutely had to say goodbye. I packed in a desperate daze, finally watching my things disappear from the shelves. It was time to go. Everything else was ready but still I wasn’t. My aunt and uncle and cousins pushed me out with the gentleness of a breath, and it seemed they were eager to have the extra room back. I left without protest, but I still hadn’t said goodbye.
While in the car with my aunt, jerking along the gritty road, I saw the old canoeing lake behind a filter of foliage. I asked her to stop the car for a moment so I could get something I left behind. She did so warily, and stared at the clock a long moment before she agreed. When I got out, she stayed in the car and reached into the glove compartment, pulling out an old Christian pamphlet to pass the time.
I walked along the dock, ignoring the huge gaps that frightened me at first. Now they were imprinted in my memory. I didn’t even need to look down to avoid them anymore. When I reached the edge, I stood lifeless for a moment, taking in the glimmer of everything. The slight ripples in the water that echoed like sound vibrations; invisible and strong. When I looked more shallowly at the water, I saw my reflection. It was missing something, I thought. Suddenly, it jumped out at me like a child at a surprise party. I waited shortly for the moment when my aunt went back to studying ‘Why Jesus Loves You’ and took the chance. In one quick and clumsy motion I half-jumped, half-slipped into the lake, soon submerged in water that was from the Arctic. Shivering and slithering to the surface, I now knew that I had finally said goodbye.