Moss Garden

Sally ties back her long hair then raises her arms high, before falling into a dive that takes her into the shimmering water, in the sunlight of the longest day of the year. Sally swims and embodies the changes wrought by adolescence and the end of the cold war. She holds a new epoch in her hands and paints her nails red; these two things are the same thing, only different colours.

Sally swims through the water, taking slow, deliberate strokes, fast, then slow, half-blinded due to the dual impact the sun has when one is in a body of water. She can still taste the strawberries from the picnic, its basket now emptied of fruits, sandwiches and lemonade. Sally's parents sit on the shore, half-watching their daughter to ensure safety in spite of the fact they can't swim and she can. This is what parents do.

And Sally is fine, takes her time, swims far, but not too far, watches the trees gently swaying in the breeze, enjoys the bracing coldness of the water. The water is deep and deep coloured, blue or green, moss-covered bottom, almost like carpet, soft underfoot. As Sally swims back to shore and the water becomes shallow she lets her feet touch the soft rocks, underneath which hide brown trout, a hundred secret animals.

And Sally exits the water, wraps herself in a towel, lies in the sun, eyes closed, wondering about the future; the hundred secrets between now and then.