In the heavy heat of summer, the tepid water before me is alive and demonic with the trashing movements of blissful children in careless play. But I have come to visit a grave, one which has been all but lost: its tomb robbed, its stone worn bare, its earth unkempt. It is said that time heals all things. Perhaps this is true. Perhaps the slow tick of time covered the wound that was left so many years ago, the skin no longer sensitive; the scar gone.
The summer before kindergarten, when I was five and she was six, was one of days with cold nights and hot afternoons. Ignorant of the ever encroaching school year, we went about our merry lives without a care in the world, much like any other children would. But our parents, to celebrate our final summer before we were swallowed up in a seemingly never-ending world of textbooks and homework, took us camping. We stayed in a large, two-room tent that housed Emma, my father, and myself, my father in one section and Emma and I in another. While he slept heavily in the farthest room from the zipped-down door, we sat, wide awake in the front section. We were both dynamic children, apt to bounce off of invisible walls with nameless exhilaration, so sleep was the farthest thing from our minds. It was not long before we started running out of things to talk and laugh about when Emma got an idea: fishing. A man-made lake was only a few yards from our site. There was a dock built specifically for fishing with no one outside to guard it, or notice us at all for that matter. So I agreed. I grabbed the tackle box after tiptoeing out of the tent and ran to catch up with Emma as she skipped away from me.
In the shadow of the trees, we could just barely make out the rippling reflection of the water. Emma raced blindly through the trees while I struggled to hold on to the tackle box that was a substantial amount of weight for a five year old to carry. But somehow, I ran as well, and although she had been a few feet away to begin with, I attempted to close the space between us. And I would have, but I tripped. It was stupid, really. I tripped over my own two feet, and the tackle box fell out of my hands onto the ground where it was emptied of its contents. Silver hooks gleamed, bladed smiles grinning animatedly from within the menagerie of rubber lures and unused, brightly feathered flies. I glanced up just long enough to see my friend disappear into the darkness. I tried to pick up everything as quickly as I could, but I could tell that my knees were bleeding and to be alone, in the woods, in the dark.... I got up and tried whispering Emma's name into the trees, but all I heard in reply was the wind. I began to make my cautious way towards the soft ripples that I could see more clearly ahead. Then I ran; again. But the closer I got to water, the more worried I became. The silence crushed me, and it was getting hard to breathe. I stopped running and stepped out of the trees, but to no greater comfort. I looked all around.
I heard it before I saw it. A wild thrashing in the water took me by surprise, and the choking muffled cry was enough to convince me that it was time to run again. I threw myself down on the dock and screamed her name, but Emma made no reply. The water was still moving, though, and I could hear her gasping for breath, so I reached my arm as far down as I could. I felt myself panic, but all I could think of was my friend, and how I needed to help her, that she couldn’t swim…. I started screaming again, telling her to grab my hand, until after a few moments, she did. I had her hand in mine and I believed she was safe.
But she was heavier than I had thought, heavier than the tackle box that I had been carrying only minutes before. I tried to pull her to the surface, but she slipped out of my grip. I tried to use both hands, but it was cold outside, and the water was colder. I quickly lost feeling in my fingers, then my hands, then my wrists. I tried to wriggle her out of the freezing water somehow, but I couldn't. And she slipped farther and farther away from me until I lost her completely. Screaming at the top of my lungs, screaming her name, I begged her to come back, to try, but I knew she could not hear. And it was not long before the ripples stopped and the water settled and silence surrounded me.
After that, I remember not being able to breathe, feeling my lungs contract and my throat burn, but my chest dry and empty. I made myself get up and run, run even though my legs burned and even though the cold air stung my eyes. I ran and fell, several times, disoriented by the pulsing blood in my ears. It took me a few minutes to find the tent again because I stopped seeing the world around me when she slipped beneath the cold surface of the water. I stumbled. Forced myself through the rough plastic and, wheezing, dragged myself to my father's side of the tent. I woke him up and started screaming again. After I had managed to utter a few intelligible words, he got out of the tent and started running towards the lake. I watched him go, but I could not move. I collapsed on the ground. The last thing I remember thinking about was the tackle box, and that, were it not for my dropping it, Emma may have survived the night.
There is no way to forget. No way to go back to the harmony of youth once it has been tainted by the memory, the fear, of death. No way to close your eyes and without waking up to a harsh reality. No way to return to a dream once it is lost in the moments between sleep and waking.
I remember Emma’s hair, the graceful movement of her dark locks onto the slender bend of her shoulders. I remember her laugh…her smile. I remember the pain of ignorance, of not understanding what it meant to be dead. I remember thinking that she would come back. I remember the thick feeling of dread welling up inside when I realized that she wouldn’t. I remember not being able to cry.
Sitting now on the bright tinctures of new swing-sets, you would never know the merciless reality of the things hidden here, for the laughter is too real. All that is left now is the burn of the phlogiston orb, the pink skin of ignorant youth, and the elation of living.
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