Dear Dad,

            Do you remember when I jumped off the boat? I was probably four or five, just sprawled out on our inflatable green raft. I was playing with the nightcrawlers we’d picked up at the Turnabenie’s drive-thru. I think you and Mom were getting along—just there, fishing together.

            I remember looking out over the edge to see the water. It was dark green, almost black. I leaned—not at all cautiously—over the raft’s edge to touch it, and I plunged in head first. You told me later that I barely made a sound. That all you heard was curplunk, and I was gone. I remember it was peaceful down there. I saw only dark liquid everywhere; I didn’t move at all. I just sank deeper.  I let myself go. But do you remember when you grabbed me? You grabbed me around the waist. You tilted me up slowly and changed my path, until we both popped out of the water back into the air. You asked me if I had fun. Of course you would. With a big smile, I said yes, and I saw mom frantically flailing toward us from behind.

            Do you remember when you left? Because I don’t. I wasn’t there. Mom and Kayla started jumping off the boat. They went head first and didn’t move. They were sinking, and I had to catch them, guide them back to the air myself. But eventually, I jumped too. And this time, I just kept going. I kept falling further and further away from it all. I let myself go. Mom jumped in after me, thrashing around in the water hoping to find me. She’s still there, thrashing in the water. You’re still gone. I actually did pretty well underwater. I learned how to swim. But one of us is still sinking. Please catch her.

Love,

Kolton