LESLIE VARELA

I stand on the wooden dock overlooking the sparkling lake. My grandmother paddles out gently on her inflatable mattress, her rhinestone studded sunglasses reflecting the animal shapes in the clouds overhead. A dragonfly hovers over the lily pads in the shallow water near the edge.

I slow my breath, then fill my lungs to capacity. Clasping my hands over my head, I bend at the knees, rise up on my toes, and dive in.

I burst through the horizontal plane of the water’s surface. The top layer, lit golden by the sun, fades to murky dark. I’m in the world of turtles and largemouth bass, of catfish and giant 

beetles. When I can no longer hold my breath, I come up for air. I’m halfway across. Halfway from the dock to the rocks. When I reach them, I can warm myself on their smooth, rounded surfaces.

I was a girl then, all those years ago. Today, I’m a painter with a mural commission. 

I’m standing in front of a long white wall, surrounded by pots of colored paint. I dip my brush into the aqua-blue, and with vigorous strokes, I color the sky. I leave spaces for clouds, like the reflected animal shapes in my grandmother’s glasses. I paint green circles, turning them into lily pads which indicate the surface of the water.

I come up for air halfway to the rounded rocks, where I can stop and warm myself.

When I finish a mural, I stand back, as if I were leaving a dream. In this one, bright peacocks strut past a scaly armadillo, while monkeys cackle in the trees.