Breathing

He toppled over in our little fishing boat,

barely big enough for the both of us.

The water rocked around us,

the endless lake swallowed

his name when I shouted.

He caught his breath and the pinkness

returned to his face, even richer

against the steel-blue lake

and the juniper trees.

I always worried about his health –

so much so that I made sure he was breathing

steadily every night when we fell asleep

in our tents.

A smile flittered across my face when he began to snore,

even though it meant I couldn’t sleep.

His snoring joined

the chorus of croaking frogs, vibrating

flies, and chirping crickets.

The crawfish I had caught drummed its pincers

against the walls of the cooler,

adding a beat to the swooshing lake

that brought on a comfortable slumber.

My eyes twitched as the morning light broke.

I heard him tinkering outside his tent,

making a fire for breakfast.

I unzipped my tent and felt the crisp air

linger on my skin. When I looked at him

bending over the fire pit,

a heaviness in my stomach registered my certainty

that we would never return again.