Ann Tinkham
Swimming in Colors
As a girl growing up in Ashland, Massachusetts, I loved to skinny dip in a purple pond. Well, you see, the pond wasn’t always purple. It was also yellow, orange, red, green, and blue. My friend, Darcy liked when it was red. So we’d compromise and swim together when it was blue. On blue days, I imagined a blue lagoon with cascading waterfalls and secret coves for kissing. Darcy played the boy and I the girl. One sun-drenched day, Darcy proudly displayed her budding breasts, and proclaimed, “Girls with breasts can’t play boys. You play the boy,” she demanded. I never saw myself as a boy, so I refused. She spoiled the secret of the blue lagoon.
I regret not swimming on her red days. It’s the least I could have done for my sweet Darcy—to have dipped my body in her favorite color. Now she’s gone; she died of soft tissue sarcoma the day before her 26th birthday. The red pond had always reminded me of swimming in blood, as though a living creature been slaughtered and its blood had stained the water. The pond rippled and lapped with red grief. She said that red was the color of passion--like hot cinnamon candies that tickled your tongue and roses with ribbons that boys brought when they said, “I love you.”
I went alone on purple days. I’d sit among the tall grass and watch the purple stream pour into the pond—like a river of grape juice. The plum-colored water would lap the banks, engulfing the reeds and lily pads. I’d imagine that a painter had just rinsed his paintbrushes, after covering his canvas with lilacs or irises. My body became a living purple canvas. I’d plunge in and pretend I was a purple mermaid looking for a patched pirate with a treasure chest of jewels.
That was 20 years ago.
Last Thanksgiving, I was told by an impassive doctor in a white-washed room that I had a rare form of soft tissue sarcoma. The color drained out of my cheeks. “Cancer,” I confirmed. I recognized the name—it was Darcy’s cancer. What were the chances of that?
The doctor explained that my case was puzzling; no cancer in my family and no lifestyle choices would have caused my condition. “Sometimes cancer just happens,” he explained. “Environmental toxins, mutations, or fate.”
Fate, how scientific, I thought. “How long do I have?” I asked.
“Hard to say,” he said. “Could be 6 months; could be 5 years.”
He explained that my options were to do nothing; start chemo immediately; or try an alternative light therapy. I imagined a lavender light healing me—like the cleansing waters of my purple pond.
“I’ll need to think about it.”
After the news, I drove out to the pond to clear my mind. I hadn’t been there since before Darcy’s death.
As I approached the bluff overlooking the pond, I noticed a neon orange sign posted by the makeshift
diving board and another by the tattered rope swing. I parked and walked over to the rope swing sign,
remembering all the times I straddled the scratchy rope and released my body into the chilly blue and purple
waters. It read: Contaminated water. Do not swim, bathe or wade.
Contact with the water may be life-threatening. Ashland Textiles, Inc.
Red hot anger welled up from my core. I wanted to run away from the now tainted memories and never return.
But instead I strode over to the trunk of my car, which contained gardening tools. I opened the trunk,
grabbed the shears and slammed the trunk, causing the car to shake. I marched back to the pond with my
shears, like a soldier with a rifle in tow advancing to the frontline. When I reached the rope swing tree,
I dropped the shears on the ground. I grabbed the rope swing and pulled it as far from the pond it would go.
I jumped up and straddled the knot, feeling the familiar scratchy sensation on my inner thighs. I swung over
the pond and back behind the tree until the swing came to a stop. Then I jumped off and wound the rope swing as tight as it could go. I positioned the knot between my legs, and leaned back as it spun me and the branches and sky above until dizziness set in. When the spinning stopped, I realized it was time. I couldn’t delay any longer.
I picked up the shears and stared at the knot and the frayed rope underneath. I opened the shears and cut above the knot we had straddled so many times. I watched the knot fall to the ground. Then in a cutting frenzy, I cut the rope higher and higher until I couldn’t reach anymore. Half a dozen segments of the frayed rope had fallen to the ground around me. It looked like a rope swing massacre.
As I walked away, it struck me that as the reds, blues, and purples had washed over our bodies, painting our imaginations, they had bled the color from our bodies.
©2007 by Ann Tinkham
