Today, I jumped off a cliff.

But it was only ten feet tall, and fresh water lapped at its base with tongues of blue and green, clear enough so I could see the rocks beneath it that my feet would never touch. The jump felt slow, and I wondered where the water went just before it caught me. I’d expected the sharp shoot of it up my nose, but it never came. I bobbed up with the bubbles. It occurred to me I didn’t hate water like I’ve been telling myself for years.

Just twenty minutes later, our boat was anchored in the middle of the lake, so the blue and green stretched in all directions. The mountains in the distance didn’t loom—they watched, calmly, the same way they watched the ducks and jet skis and flags blowing in the breeze.

I was floating on a noodle, cradled by waves softer than my hair, and I realized your icy grip could never reach me here. Your claws would drip and thaw like a popsicle, get washed away by the water until you simply became a part of it. The sun would render you translucent and evaporated in all places where you didn’t melt. And I would still be here, floating, safe from your touch and from the seaweed reaching up.

Drying afterwards, I found that boat days pair nicely with handpicked blueberries and conversations about mansions and dreams. I found that I didn’t mind the tightness of my skin as the sunrays dried my face. I found that I liked to keep one foot in the water because it felt warmer there. Softer.

I found that maybe everyday isn’t meant to be spent at my desk, hiding, conspiring, remembering.