Carlina Moore - Sailing Home

The little boy I tutor on Thursdays asked me what my favorite body of water was. I thought about the last time I drowned, told him, whichever one makes me feel more like a child. I remember being small and cluelessly giddy, kissing my first boy on the broken bar booth at Fridays, a birthday party my parents threw for me, over curly fries and their finest wine (they gave us ocean in a tall glass) and I wondered when boys would feel like a promise, not an achievement, didn’t understand why mother and father never dared inhale each other. In Georgia, I borrowed a gay cowboy’s prized silver boots, and curled my hair to go canoeing. Left Mr. Cowboy in socks and skinny jeans, while I sailed away on my ship, waving farewells through handkerchiefed smiles, like an old Hollywood film, who’s only role is to be pretty. This lake is too shallow 

for me, I spend my days heaving and pushing and hoping I’ll find my way 

home. I could never live in the south, I hate the heat, and the people hate themselves too much to leave. I don’t give the man his boots back.

A lot of things scare me:

leaving my mom, goodbyes, taking off makeup, sweat down my back, wintertime, the dark, men only friends with women they’d fuck, forgetting to brush teeth, falling asleep late, the taste of alcohol, the taste of tomatoes in sandwiches, my front teeth, jealousy, pens without caps, the end of childhood, good looking guys, that feeling I get when I see a little girl holding her father’s hand at the park, feeling the ache in her neck from craning her head to look for his love, knowing her parents throw her birthday parties at Fridays and don’t drink wine like water, marriage, happy families, wrists without watches, raising a child, the open ocean.