Every Tear Is a Waterfall
February. A Wednesday. We found a waterfall, a swirling cataract that fell more than fifty foaming feet into an abyss. Yawning jaws of jagged rock on either side. I stood at the top, mesmerized by the whirlpools. The applause of the falling water called to me.
Here. You can die here. If you merge with me.
I found a canoe, that temperamental floater, prone to capsize at its slightest whim, and I pointed it downstream. Into the draining flow. Before I knew it, I was one with the river, bouncing along the ancient riverbed, hurling myself to my watery end. Sucked into the physics and hydraulics of moving water.
At the ragged edge of the drop, I flung my oar into nothing, the thrill of success. I held my arms open, welcoming the embrace of speed that accompanied my plunge. Maybe I tumbled end over end. I fluttered. And flew. Shot from the end of a cannon, I knew the joy of crashing into the unseen. I hit the froth of liquid with a smile on my face and forgot myself in the lurching whorl of death.
Until I awoke. Sun baking skin. Coughing water. Canoe smashed. My body vomited onto the rocks. Still alive. Staring at the irregular sliver of sky. The Almighty laughed at me from on high.
This post is part of the series Death Becomes Me. It is a series of fiction. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to read the first installment, go here for the second, go here for the third and click here for the fourth.