I am from the warm, soft morning light in the summer, where the dew drips from the tips of the wildflowers, where you can hear the river in the distance and the sun rises over the hills, pouring the warm egg-yolk light on us. I am from the ocean, whose waves shaped the way I see the world. I am from the sun and moon mural, whose stars glow in the dark. I am from my mom’s garden, which has stunning pinks, bright oranges, and light greens, leading to a porch where a turquoise chair sits next to a tangerine table. I am from the day I made snow angels on the basketball court and snowflakes danced around me before landing on my eyelashes. From the day I spent shooting arrows from the smooth black bow, until my hands were so cold I couldn’t bend my fingers.
I am from bachelor’s buttons dotting the foothills in purple, white, and blue. I am from the black eyed susans who flash their bright yellow when you walk down the sidewalk.
I am from old home videos and slideshows, showing clips of my past. I am from skis that flew me down the snowy mountain, from cold pink noses and a white parka.
I am from my fins, which let me soar through the water, and my wetsuit, without which, I may not be here. I am from 911 calls in horseshoe bend, and a fire that stayed orange and warm in the midst of cold.
I am from friends who I rarely see but still love, and those days with them, where we were invincible.
From shivering at the bus stop, turning my iPod up, hoping to drown the pain, the sound of silence, the sound of alone. From hiding and crying. From screaming as if you can’t take another drop of guilt. From watching someone you love self-destruct. From the smiths and Angus and Julia stone. From hearing “beyond this moment” as you drive up the winding road through the endless forest. From the day you ride in the car with your mom, the first day it’s really cold, and she turns on the heat, and for the first time it smells like Christmas.
I am from the days it should be May, but it’s only January, those days you starve for summer and everything inside you is screaming.
I am from whitewater kayaking and surfing. Swimming and hydrospeeding.
I am from the water, where I always wish to be, to feel the shades of blue ripple against my skin.
I am from sitting at the bottom of the pool after practice, holding my breath as long as I could, seeing the reflection of the water being projected by the sun onto the wall, watching the beams cause the water to dance in a yellow symphony of beauty, then I run out of breath and swim back to the surface.
I am from the water, shaped by the waves. I am from the currents, I am from each shade of blue. From beneath the waves, a place where I felt not awake but not asleep, where there is deep green mixed within the blue and white bubbles swirl around me, like a storm of beauty and there are flickers of sunlight that fade the further I get from the surface. And it is beautiful. But time runs out. Oxygen runs out. I swim up, up, up, until the light seems so bright and brilliant , and soon I see a clear layer which I burst through, and the light is everywhere. And I am back in reality.
The water is who I was.
The water is who I am.
The water is who I will be.
The water is where I am from.
I will always remember the warm, egg-yolk light that poured across us and the wildflowers and the hills, and I can hear the river and I can smell the summer, I can feel the summer, and I cannot stop thinking about the shades of blue waiting for me. The underwater world, the place between dream and reality, the place where I am from waits for me.