Memory of Water

By: Maria Victoria A. Grageda-Smith

(Copyright 2005 by Victoria G. Smith)
I. An hour before sundown, on the cusp of spring:
water cascading over rocks upon man-made
pond teeming with fish my husband bought
from the pet shop for twenty-five cents a piece.
I fear the mallard ducks and cranes will fly
overhead and remembering, stop over this oasis
to feed upon my husband’s fish. Is this why
they call them “feeder fish”? And why we don’t
put koi: costs an arm and a leg— much more than
the price of human life, these days. It’s our species
that kills its kind for nothing. “Have you seen
my goldfish?” my husband asked.
How a grown man could delight in such little
creatures. I wonder whether he sheds secret
tears for the ones the brown female mallard ate?
But I remember how an emerald-collared male rode
her the other day, marking and mucking the water
with their lovemaking. I wonder how the fish
could stand such obscenity! Yet why do we feel
repulsed by life repeating itself? The female must
be preparing to return what she took. Life for life:
that’s how the cycle goes. How could I—a mother—then
condemn her? She swims, feasting, unmolested, beakdiving
for the fish my husband will replace, without tears.
II. What, in the sound of water, do we find soothing?
Scientists say that’s where we came from: amphibians
that learned to walk and live on dry land.
We’ve lived so long on this land, we’ve forgotten
our beginnings. Yet with trickling, splashing, flowing
music, fetal memory returns with memory of water:
our first womb. It’s the sea—not the earth that birthed us.
The second only swallows us on the voyage home.
One hour before day closes shop: the twilight hour
before half a life is gone, before the second half begins.
Where has the first half strayed? We are worn down,
rock-bare—our rough edges eroded like river stones,
leveled smooth to our lowest common denominator
by the slow, sure, sculpting force of the river of life.
How then shall we face the second half of our lives?
Naked and disarmed, we’ve been reduced to helpless
new-borns, yet deprived of luxury of time, strength of youth.
With what sharp and fearsome weapons shall we fend off
the enemies still to come? Even our horns have been
ground down to our skulls—not even the stubs remain.
Too tired to fight anymore. No need to fight anymore.
At the right angle and speed, we fling ourselves upon
the river’s surface and bounce-skip to the other side.
Faith is the shoe that enables us to walk on water,
or become pebbles of resignation—diving into our fates,
mothering ripples of change. Everything has a purpose
in this world—yes, even this pebble.
Isn’t this what Fellini’s fool said in La Strada?

Poet’s Notes: Every summer, as now, many of us are drawn to the banks of all types of bodies of water. In a poetry anthology, Poems of the Sea, editor J. D. McClatchy talks about the irresistible draw of the sea for many of us, attributing this partly to our evolutionary origins. My poem above draws from the same premise—my little take on water’s temptations and how it can assume the great metaphor of our lives. Some of us are great admirers of the works of the great filmmaker, Fellini. I need not say more than La Dolce Vita. However, Fellini’s lesserknown film, La Strada, is my favorite. I am attracted and drawn to the fool in that movie as many are charmed and heartbroken by Chaplin’s fool. Some of the greatest heroes of mankind’s history played the clown for all of us in a desperate attempt to awaken us to the truths that lie hidden in our silly ways. They say wise monarchs often recruited jesters for their courts precisely for this reason: To alert the king or queen to something awry yet hidden in their midst that could only be safely communicated through comedy. Humor does have a funny way of conveying serious matters that we couldn’t acknowledge otherwise. Perhaps this is why my husband and I enjoy watching the Stephen Colbert and Jon Stewart shows so much. There are so many heart-breaking things happening globally that we can only tolerate through comedy. I’ve always known I married a smart man, but it still delightfully surprises me when he breaks out in sharp quips such as, “We never watch the news because it’s comedy, and so we watch comedy to get the news.” As I write this, I am looking at a gradually clearing view of Lover’s Point in Monterey Bay from the top of the hill that is our family’s summer retreat, literally and figuratively floating on clouds. I never for one moment take for granted that my family is truly privileged to call one of the most hypnotizingly beautiful spots on earth as its home. Likewise, I know my husband and I are lucky to have been able to heed the call of water at this second half of our lives. Irresistible as the mythical sirens’ song, the gentle bend of the bay tempts like the sacred arc of a woman’s curve, as though calling us back into the womb of the Great Mother to live, die and be reborn in this little Shangri-La that is a perfect melding of earth, sea and sky. (Copyright 2014 by Victoria G. Smith)