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It sounds absurd. Insufficient. A child’s observation, not a deathbed confession. But words are not measured by their syllables. They are measured by the weight they carry when the tide of someone’s life is finally going out.
But what she said, quietly, was: “I’m wet. Oh. I’m wet.” My Grandmother -Grandma- you-re wet- -Final- By...
I was ten years old the first time I realized this fear had a name. We were watching a documentary about hurricanes, and when the screen filled with storm surge swallowing a pier, Grandma physically flinched. Then she laughed at herself, embarrassed. It sounds absurd