+++++“Feel anything yet?”

+++++I peep the votive in the corner and sit back against the sofa cushions, smile skeptical, mind open. The Holy Mother’s image smiles and she leans in, ¿Estás lista? I close my eyes and press my back against the pillows and sink further and further.

+++++It’s winter in Yonkers. My mother has taken me to visit a man who isn’t my father. He looks just like a Latino Freddie Mercury with his leather jacket and greased mustache. His apartment is decorated with sleek silver accents and glossy black furniture. I take my slice of extra cheese pizza with me and eat alone in his kitchenette out of sight. Votive candles of Jesus Cristo and the Saints line his kitchen counters. I fold the pizza in half and let the orange grease drip onto the paper plate before taking a bite of the holy bread. I try to swallow. I try to breathe. I can’t even make a sound. I try to bang against the wall but am drowned out by Univision. My hands are around my throat as I scan the tiny room: the yellowed appliances, the bamboo ox calendar unrolled and hanging on the wall next to a take-out menu, the eyes of the Almighty and the Saints upon me. I stand up and brace myself against the tabletop. I strain and try to cough as Don Francisco belts out a song. My face is wet with sweat, tears, and snot. Ayúdame. I cough out the bolus onto the table and oxygen floods my lungs.

+++++One back-roll and I’m in the ocean. I sink, equalize. My body relaxes and I breathe deep, bubbles sparkling against my skin. I laugh as I float and let myself feel weightless. I would live in this world if I could. A school of silver mackerel encircles me with glittering scales. Dolphins show off as they do, carefree and welcoming, smiling with their conical sea-foam teeth. Did you pass the puffer, too? they ask, spinning through bubble rings. An octopus shakes my hand and cradles my chin like an old tentacled relative examining my soft face behind rectangular pupils. It speaks with its great beak. Do you recall the flatworm, young one? I shake my head. I don’t, but I remember the water.

+++++It’s so brown and murky that I can’t even see my feet. I’m holding the large purple and orange octopus-float my mother’s new boyfriend bought me to entertain myself while he has her all to himself. I’m nine and I still don’t know how to swim, but I’ve touched two seas. I climb onto the octopus and paddle out past the choppy waves and into the Gulf. The ocean is comforting even though it’s silty here, it feels the same. The waves rock me to sleep and I drift. The water splashes my face. Wake up. My back burns. I sit up on the float and realize I’m surrounded by seaweed and dark water. Where’s the shore? I finally make out the thin line of the island in the distance. The octopus-float smiles. Don’t panic, just paddle. I plunge my arms into the salt water and follow the bells of moon jellies to shore.

+++++It’s always the water that pulls me in. Does she really love me? The octopus nods its mantle. Have I always been a burden? The octopus cups my hand, There, there. My body begins its ascent to the surface. I would live in this world if I could, I say, its velvet tentacle slipping from my fingers. But you do, it murmurs, and lets go.

+++++I resurface drenched in sweat.

+++++“Well, what was it like?”

+++++I watch the dancing flame trample the wax into wine.

+++++Tell them, says the Holy Mother.

+++++“A baptism.”