My Father, The Diver

My father was a diver, a dancer of sorts.
Carrying his lean performance in steps.
Holding precise, tightened feet like an acrobat across
The slippery metal of a stage.
He carried his years in youth up these ladders
Hands clinging once and again,
Unwavered by lips, the anticipated grin of his own and those of others
Eager onlookers awaiting his jump.
And then, my father, he would take it.
Grace the board, the steps of a young man in his glory,
On the edge of time and fame.
And in that moment, his mind fell into his body.
A dancer in air, huddled together,
Curled and then open into rounds of superhuman perfection.
At least this is how I imagine his glory (in bias of my only father)
Growing with him, my swimming teacher,
My leader into the mind of water.

Hand in hand, at times, he still possesses this grace,
Even moments of consternation on the edge of boards,
Even moments of love outside the abyss of water.
Sometimes, there is even a loose grin
Innocent eyes that take hold of mine,
Moon steady outside the window of my childhood.
My small, eager feet on the edge of a pillow,
Attempting grace across the plank of wrinkled sheets,
I jump across the water between us,
Plunge head first into his arms
Into the deep abyss of night water,
Until our heads reach the surface
Both divers together in an embrace.

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