“Fallen Catholic”

By Rina Palumbo

 

Fallen Catholic

I walked to the river’s edge when I was eleven years old. I can’t swim. So, on a late summer day when I was eleven, I stood barefoot on the sharp stones that marked the boundary between land and water. The sun was a perfect sphere, and as I stood there, I tried to imagine all that light and heat simply stopping. I knew it never did; I knew that light and heat were the same energy, a movement of wave particles that I imagined like the pulse of an eternal animal. Unstoppable.

So, when I was eleven years old and stood on the rocky shore with the sun overhead and those high clouds moving through the bright blue skies so familiar in Midwestern summers, I took a step into the river. It was cold, as I had expected. The Great Lakes are full of cold fresh water moving swiftly into the salty Atlantic. They are also dredged deep and wide to allow heavily laden ships to bring taconite, limestone, grain, salt, coal, cement, gypsum, sand, slag, potash, and iron ore wherever needed. I knew all this. I also knew the geology, geography, and history of the place I was standing in. I just didn’t understand why I was there.

So, I took one more step; the water was at ankle level now, and I could feel the current, and I could feel that the rocks were smaller and not as sharp, and I could feel myself not wanting to be there. There is something about cold water that numbs my sense of hearing. I remember the muffled stillness, like hiding under a thick blanket. I remember being thrilled by the sensation.

The next step brought water halfway up my calves. The current was almost a pull now. Almost, but not entirely. I remember how it felt to be there, the rocks, the river, the air, and the sun, and becoming increasingly numb. I wanted that numbness, or, more precisely, to feel everything and nothing simultaneously.

I don’t remember how long I stood, trying to imagine this exact place, but with me erased from it, my particles broken up and swept into the same pulse that animated that moment. I remember taking another step so the water rose below my knees.

Now, this is the part when I am supposed to be interrupted. Someone walks by, sees you, and asks, is everything all right? Never happened. That is how these things are supposed to turn out.

What did happen is that I slipped. What happened is that I slipped and fell, and although I stretched my arm out to break my fall, I fell anyway.

Now, this is the divine intervention part. An angel. A voice. A hand. Never happened. I remember the water filling my nose and mouth and pressing against my ears. I remember forcing myself to keep my eyes open. I saw blood flowing from somewhere on my body. A large, still burnished, bright piece of metal was trapped between the rocks, and I must have cut myself on it.

When I finally stood up, I remember the air like a slap against my body. I started shaking. I wrapped my arms around myself. My wet clothing dragged me down, and my hand began to throb as I took the final steps onto the rocky shore. I walked to where I had left my sandals and lay down on the grass.

I remember being there, curled up, cold and shivering, and feeling the sun slowly warm me. I don’t know how long I stayed that way. When I walked home, my hair was still damp, my hand hurt in a pulsing rhythm, and my body was finite.

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