Above Water

By Chris B

Above Water
It took a lot to get here.
Not distance—
depth.

The kind you don’t measure in miles
but in mornings that begin
before you’re ready
and nights that refuse to end
cleanly.

It took a lot to get here,
to this place where my feet still touch ground
even though the water keeps rising,
cool and quiet,
pretending not to ask questions.

Caregiving teaches you this posture:
knees bent,
weight forward,
eyes trained on the surface
for signs of trouble
or grace
or both arriving at once.

I didn’t wade in bravely.
I stepped in because someone I love
was already surrounded,
because standing on shore
felt like a luxury I couldn’t afford.

The water presses in—
on my thighs,
my ribs,
the old confidence I used to wear
without thinking.

Some days it reaches my chest,
and breathing becomes
a deliberate act,
counted,
negotiated.

But still—
I’m upright.
Above water
doesn’t mean dry.
It doesn’t mean safe.
It means choosing presence
over escape,
balance over panic,
staying when every instinct says
float away.

There are moments
the lake goes still.
The surface turns honest,
mirroring a version of me
I barely recognize—
tired, yes,
but steady.

It took a lot to get here,
to learn that strength isn’t muscle
or optimism
or pretending this is easy.

Strength is knowing how to wade
without disappearing.
How to keep your head up
without hardening your heart.
How to remain visible
while carrying someone else’s weight.

I don’t walk out of the water yet.
I don’t need to.

For now,
being above water
is enough.

---

Another Anagram
The numbers
dipped.
Not metaphor.
Not mood.
Actual oxygen
slipping quietly
out of the room.

RSV.
Three letters that don’t look like much
until they start stealing breath
from a winded warrior
who already negotiates
with too many anagrams.

The monitor blinked
like it was unsure of itself.
89.
87.
Another night
with unmerciful
alarms.

I’ve learned the choreography
by now—
lift, adjust, listen.
Check the seal
on the CPAP mask.
Count the seconds
between inhales—
the rosary beads
are tired
of my fingers.

He leans into
his favorite pillow—
does he dream
in between the wheezes
and crunches?

The oxygen line curls
beside him
like a question mark.
I answer it
with my hands.
We’ve been here before—
the overnight show,
where machines
do the talking
and I bargain
with ceilings.

They say viruses
run their course.
They don’t mention
the way a father runs
alongside them,
glassy-eyed,
dehydrated,
defiant.
This is not
his finish line.
Not on
my watch.

His levels dip
again.
I adjust
my faith.
I don’t need
perfect numbers.
I need
upward arrows.
I need that small,
monumental climb
back to 92…
94…
95.

And then—
there it is.
The quiet victory
no one else cares
to celebrate.
We throw a parade
anyway.

Breath settles
into rhythm.
The machine relents
to the quiet melody.
He recovers
like he always does—
not loud,
but humble.

RSV—
another anagram
he sheds.
I collapse,
sick from these
vocabulary lessons.

But then I recall
the words
that make us
whole again—
abundance,
ebullience,
indefatigability.

We’ve built something
stronger
than statistics—
a house of unyielding
hope.

The numbers climb
as they remember
who they belong to—
the boy who won’t quit.

And neither
will we.

---

Palimpsest with Plastic Knobs
I made plans in ink once—
blueprints of a life
with labeled rooms
and wide hallways
for futures that behaved.

Then came the shaking.
Not dramatic—
just enough
to blur the edges
of what I swore
was permanent.

The palimpsest-privy poet
knows this trick—
nothing is ever fully erased,
just written over
with steadier hands
and different weather.

I hold the Etch A Sketch
of my best laid plans,
tilt it toward the light,
and watch the silver dust
swallow the straight lines
I drew so carefully
at 7, 17, 27,
at 36,
at 47.

Shake.
The wedding toast I imagined.
Shake.
The milestones in pen.
Shake.
The version of him
running ahead of me
down some sunlit boardwalk.

Still—
when the screen clears,
here we are again.
Two knobs.
Two hands.
Turning.
Not the life I mapped.
But a life.

Shake.
He smiles.
Shake.
He sleeps.
Shake.
The version of him
transcending his body
to fill my cup with grace.

My hands pause.
Enough.

About The Author

Chris B. is an award-winning published poet, caregiver, and Dad to his son Brayden (Bray Bray). When he’s not writing, caregiving, or working, you can find Chris on the pickleball and beach volleyball courts of Long Island, NY, where he resides with his wife Melanie and Bray Bray.

Chris is very active on Substack and invites you to follow along as he shares his life adventures as the working parent of a child with many needs, whose enduring smile lights up the world. You can find Chris on Substack as Chris B. Writes:

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