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I am on a boat. The waves are crashing all around, threatening to drag us under. Golden ringlets sway beside me as my daughter sleeps. If I try hard enough I can almost see her dreams projecting in the sky next to the moon. I am holding the sails to keep us from tipping in to the sea, where we will be swallowed and washed up on the shore weeks later.
She was a good mom, they’ll say. Her daughter was beautiful. But she never combed her hair.
Except, I am not on a boat. I am in the bed of a man who has decided for me that I am his girlfriend. I am in the bed of a man, that I will be terrified of for the rest of my life. I am in the bed of my rapist.
My daughter is, too.
My uncle is a fisherman. He taught me to trap lobsters and rake clams. He taught me to snorkel and scuba dive. He taught me to be still and wait. So I am waiting, on his boat. There is a storm.
But the storm is a man, and his boat is a bed.
The only thing worse than actually drowning tonight, is not.
