By Gabrielle Samson
Our creek is lined with river gums, casuarinas, grevillea, bottle brush. Birds – blue wrens and kingfishers – nest in the leaves and play in the water that flows down from the mountain. It’s a hidden spot and I am alone on the bank . . . because no-one can see me I will dip into the water naked like I used to do. My body is old now – it was once firm and round but now it sags and wrinkles and my once tanned arms and legs are marked with brown patches and gardening scars. But my skin will still feel the chill, and my heart still feel the thrill of the icy water as I step into it. I’ll feel the smooth wet rock beneath my feet and the swirl of the water around my ankles. Will I enter the water little by little or make a sudden splash into the deep pool? I hesitate . . . start by walking in slowly letting the coldness climb up my ankles, calves, knees, thighs, . . . I gasp and giggle and when it reaches my stomach I swoop, dive under and every part of me is wet, ice cold for a moment, taking my breath away. I come up laughing. No-one can see me play here . . . so I leap and splash in and out of the water. My skin, my body is alive like a girl’s, my blood tingles.
I play in the deepest pool – under the overhanging branches I float downstream cradled by the soft, dappled water, watching the sky through the tree tops. And then I swim slowly upstream against the flow. Back and forth carried downstream by the water then upstream swimming against it, I float then swim, float then swim . . . until finally, growing cold, I crawl out onto the rocks and lie there to dry in the sun. No-one can see me so I lie there like a water dragon enjoying the hardness of wet rock, the warmth of the sun, the caress of fresh air all over my body and the stream of water trickling around my feet. From here I can watch birds flitting about in the leaves or skimming the water after insects . . . or I can just close my eyes and listen to birdsong and water music. If no-one can see me, if no-one can see my naked body or see into my naked soul, I can lie here on this rock dreaming . . . and, if I’m game, allow myself to feel the exquisite joy of living while trying to balance it in my head and heart with the unavoidable fear of growing old.
Carindale Writers Group 