A memory

The rock is hard and hot beneath me as I sit in the sun, watching you from a distance.

You stand on a rock ledge, meters up, looking down at the cold, dark water, water that chills my skin, skin that warms in the sun, as I watch you, from a distance.

This is a special place for me, my father’s final resting place, where I scattered the last of his ashes, and it has become, over the years, our special place.

In our special place, I sit on the hard, hot rock, chilled, skin warming in the sun, as I watch you, from a distance.

You aren’t too far away, as distance goes, but to make it to where you stand would take precious moments……but I would not need to make it to where you stand.

In our special place, on the hard, hot rock, sitting as the sun warms my chilled skin, I watch you from a distance, as you stand on a ledge, peering at the dark, chilled water below.

I have always watched you from a distance, the closest you would allow me. I have watched, making sure you were safe.

You are young in this memory, ten years old, and you have learned the thrill, the rush, of leaping from a rock, against your better judgement, into dark, chilled waters. But today, this rock, this ledge, is twice the height of any rock you’ve jumped from before. The difference in distance is a meter or so, but from your perspective it is vastly higher. It is higher than the rocks that you are used to.

I watch from a distance, chilled skin warming in the sun as you stand on a ledge and peer down at the chill, dark water.

I wonder to myself, at some point, as to your reason for doing this.  Is it to test yourself, or is it to prove yourself in my eyes? The former is only natural, the latter…unnecessary, though my vanity hopes that it is a mixture of both.

I sit on the hot, hard rock, and watch you from a distance as you step back from the ledge. I call to you, asking if you want to give up, you look at me and shake your head, staring again at the cool dark water. I call to you, encouraging you, assuring you that here is nothing to be afraid of. I remind you that the ledge is only a little higher than what you are used to, that the water below you is clear and safe, of how to jump, with your feet together, toes pointed, arms crossed on your chest, elbows in.

I sit on a hard, hot rock, chilled skin now warmed by the sun in our special place and watch you from a distance as you step forward to the edge of the ledge once more. I do not fear for your safety, I know you are safe.

You hold one hand out to the side and, on your fingers, count off backwards as you call out, "3, 2, 1"….and jump.

You take a step forward, and out, as I’ve taught you, feet together, toes pointed, arms crossed on your chest and elbows in.

I sit on a hot, hard rock, my skin warmed by the sun, watching from a distance as the surface of the chilled, dark water is broken by the cascade of bubbles created by your plunge, tense and ready to fling myself into those same dark waters when, there, your head breaks the surface and, after scraping your hair from your eyes, you look up to your perch, only meters away, before turning to me, your face split by a grin.

I applaud, I whoop, I whistle....but my applause, my whoops, my whistles, are lost, drowned out by the applause, the whoops, the whistles of back-packers, tourists and locals who have watched, awe-bound as a little boy has over-come his fear, his trepidation, for what-ever reason, and taken a step that every iota of his being has told him he shouldn’t take.

They are, quite simply, impressed, my Connah, my Bugs.

I was, I am, quite simply, proud.