Water

There was once a time when I was deathly afraid of water.  Lake water, particularly.  The dark depth of it, the squish of the shallow beds, the squirming, slithering creatures I couldn't see.  I remember when Madeline and I were just old enough to take the old canoe out to the peninsula on our own.  We'd wake with the sun, throw the sheets off our bare legs, pack a lunch of pickles and string cheese, steal our sisters' sunglasses and dark tanning oil, and slip quietly off into the water.  Our canoe, filled with innocence and penny toads, muddy bare feet and summery secrets, collided with the peninsula's shore.  Madeline would peel of all of her clothes down to her swim suit and jump out, tying our vessel to an unexpecting tree branch.  She'd plunge her toes deep into the muck, and search around to find skipping stones.  I stayed in the canoe, leaning over the edge, running my fingertips along the top of a body of my biggest fear.  I kept myself busy braiding my bleached hair into tiny braids, organizing the shells Madeline tossed in by size, color, magical capability.  She'd splash me, throw seaweed at me, squeeze her nose and make me count how many seconds she could hold her breath underwater. I squirmed when she'd catch tadpoles and hold them in the pool her cupped hands made, jumped back when she'd hold a crawdaddy between her fingers.

Eventually, I got over my fear of water.  But I miss it.  Now I'm afraid of bigger things... like confrontation, or loss of senses.