It's Friday again, which means I have five minutes to write while Zoe naps. That's the joy of Five Minute Fridays, I think; I get the satisfaction of having written something, and there's still plenty of nap left when I'm done to go see what others have written. Head over to Lisa-Jo Baker's blog if you want to see what everyone's been doing with their five minutes.
This week's prompt: dive.
It's that feeling when your toes are curled around the end of the high dive, heart thundering in your ears before you gather your tiny courage around you and step off into nothing. The water covers you, smothers you, and there's that split second where you're not sure you'll ever breathe again.
When I saw those two lines, over a year ago now, a piece of me was given over irrevocably to the endless task of climbing up and diving down over and over again. Time, I think, will not dull the thin edge of my fear much as I hold my daughter in my shaking hands and jump into the deep waters.
She used to be nothing more than my deepest hope, and hope's not a scary thing. It's warm and safe and you can breathe easy when you hold it in your arms.
But now she's so much more than that. She's the rush of air that fills my lungs when I break the surface after the long plunge. She's my heart, sailing off outside the narrow confines of my ribs even though I know that the ocean is bigger than the both of us and there are monsters out there near the edge of the map.
My thoughts are everywhere as I breathe again and ever again the prayer I think I’ll be speaking over her for the rest of her life. Be safe, Zoe. Be safe.