Jenna Nienhuis

I tiptoe through the shallow waters, 
clench my arms to my chest, 
and squeal as whitewater crashes into my bare stomach. 
I wait for an unbroken wave to arrive and then— 
sink under like a desperate prayer. 
Saltwater rushes around my ears, into my nose, down the back of my throat. 
It soaks my day-old hair into submission, sweeps
my body into a break from the weight of land. 
Under again, my arms float up following the curl of the wave. 
From the sea, I can wrap my arms around the width of an hour, 
the shape of my daughter’s emotions, 
the length of my task list. 
Another wave arrives like a gift, and I submerge again,
now saturated with the sea. 
After three baptisms, I lie back and stretch out—a cross 
facing the sky. There I am 
no one other than a girl in the water. 
Remember me, I plead to the ocean. To God. To my kids. 
I stand up and scatter the water with my hands 
leaving everything I don’t need behind. 
Holy water drips down the nape of my neck and
I look back in quiet thanks.
Remember me, she echoes back.