Sometimes I'm still proud of these gills I've grown over the last decade, how I've learned to breathe under this water I was so eager to dive into all those years ago.
Sometimes, but not as often as before.
Sometimes, I kinda hate 'em, these gills I wasn't born with.
And just about the time I seriously start to wonder whether these gills are actually bad for me, like maybe I would have been better off without them, like maybe I shouldn't have ever jumped in, I put my head above water and see my sons on dry ground, eager to dive in and join me.
My heart sinks.
No, please...not them.
Yes, they're coming. There's no stopping them now.
I mean, really?
They've been the fodder for how much of my underwater breathing all this time, have observed my constant swimming, and I really think I can keep them out of this water now?
My sons.
My precious boys.
I was there for their births. Fingers, toes, sweet little cries.
No gills.
But those gills are gonna grow on them, too, probably even more impressive than mine.
I wish it didn't have to be so.
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