No one heard her slip 

the undertow was invisible

Drifting, her gaze turned inward 

silently pulling her downward

There was no fear only the beauty 

of weightlessness

Arms outstretched

hair swirling tendrils

No breath, just

Calm

Silence

She liked drowning

Forgetting the strife her older sisters caused her

She eagerly drank in the soothing intoxicating waters

A queen in a world of her own making

The mirrors giving her 

the only answer she ever wanted

         You are the fairest of them all

         You are

         You are

Lost in the depths of her choosing

We tossed her lifelines and floaties

She screamed at us and called them anchors

Accused us of weighing her down

Of trying to diminish her

To drown her

Where oh where is Mr. Jones now we need him?

Willing to jump in fully clothed 

with Grandfather’s watch in his pocket, 

to reach in and pull her out to safety

He read the signs while we could not

If he were still alive, would that he’d do the same again

—

Mr. Jones was in the war. He was never quite the same. We heard his children survived on blackbirds and squirrels. I didn’t believe it until me and his daughter became friends.

My mother gathered eclectic friendships. We got to know Mr. Jones under the vined overhang at Marion Seaton’s house- a long rambling, overgrown bungalow with a cement pool in the back. That’s where the kids were allowed to play. We were only allowed indoors to use the bathroom, wending our way through stacks of books and record albums, in the dim cool light, the chill of uneven terra cotta tiles on our feet. 

Mr. Jones & Marion Seaton could talk about the war to each other, they had both survived it. His journey through the Pacific Arena, hers in a concentration camp in the Philippines with her two small daughters. A total of 3 years they were held. She kept her sanity by teaching the children math & songs & reciting poetry by rote.And with a crochet hook fashioned out of a stick, and one long knotted piece of string, she worked and reworked miniature masterpieces with the hooked needle & thread only to finally unravel them, rewind the string into a ball, and start all over again. And again.

The years & scars had taken their tolls. Mr. Jones & Marion Seaton had a love for each other that had nothing to do with physicality. Merely each other’s presence. They were comfortable & they felt safe together. There was no need for words. Living on the edge as they had, they were both adept at reading signs, body language, a glance or a nod.

Marion would always send Mr. Jones home with the largess from her overgrown gardens. Ripe tomatoes, too big zucchini, and sweet purple figs from the enormous tree shading the concrete patio from the dry Northern California sun. She rightly worried that the children still weren’t getting enough to eat.

I remember those heady summer nights when mom & dad were still together, listening to the cadence of their grown-up talk. Mr. Boots would sometimes be there too, taking notes for his newspaper column, getting opinions on this topic or that. 

I remember Marion’s daughter Daphne. We all thought she was so glamorous, living her life like she did, single and independent, with the newfound women’s liberation and all. Living braless we assumed, down in the hip city of San Francisco. She caught the attention of all the men when she came to visit, and Mr. Boots would make a point to be there if she was.

From the front of the house with the sticky olive trees, it was hard to imagine the wonderland that was hidden inside the fenced backyard. Blooming clover & buzzing bees, hibiscus flowers & fig leafs the size of platters. Warm ripe tomatoes & grapes eaten right off the vine. The happy sounds of children laughing & splashing in the concrete lagoon. Cleaned only occasionally, we swam & bobbed with the floating leaves & debris without a care. 

I remember the grown-ups huddled in the far corner of the backyard, near the pergola’d patio dripping with honeysuckle, talking. Their murmuring tones drifting towards the pool, an occasional exclamation or sharp laughter. Long languid summer evening with hot dogs, cold beer, inner tubes, Kool-Aid, and long tall tales that comforted us until the stars twinkled & our parents trundled us, still wet, into our dusty gray Volkswagen Bus for the short ride home.