But one day, a bad day, I kept my head down. I breathed seaward and didn’t pay attention to the course I was swimming, to where the beach was. The water was calm but cloudy. I don’t remember feeling particularly one way or another. Or caring much about anything. One way or another.

Drowning, the possibility that I could drown, had never been a consideration for me. The sea was as much a part of me as grief had become, and drowning would have been an act of defiance. I thought about it though, that day. The struggle between wanting to die and wanting to live. Press the muzzle of a gun to your temple and pull the trigger and it’s pretty simple. But being a strong swimmer, I didn’t think it was possible to drown, even if I’d wanted to.

This was torture, Bear, foolhardy, a type of self-mutilation. I was leading myself to you. Deep in the cold water, already shivering after ten minutes out, I told myself a story. It was about you. About how, one summer morning, you woke up as soon as the sun hit your face; your eyelids, your cheeks, your lips warm and rich and full with sleep. You nudged your mother’s neck until she turned away from you. Then you remembered, we were supposed to go fishing. You stepped with bare feet out of the bed, expecting to find me at the table, to find breakfast at the table. Fruit and bread and a cup of warm milk. I wasn’t there though, and you were mad that I had forgotten you.

So. You found your leather sandals just next to the door and sat on the front step to buckle them over your feet, your pink tongue poking out of your mouth and your hair sticking up and your pyjamas still on. You knew the way to the lake, down the path to the boathouse. You got there and called out for me, and looked through the boathouse door expecting to find me there, waiting for you. I wasn’t. And then you made a discovery. On the flat rock, just outside the boathouse door, you found five baby mice. You didn’t know what they were. Five pink and hairless creatures, blind and curled like cashew nuts. You went back into the boathouse and got your toy boat, and you scooped the mice up and put them into the boat. You probably spoke to them, named them, told them they were going on a trip. There was no question that this boat would be launched – live passengers! Very carefully, in both hands you carried the boat to the end of the dock, your eyes on the mice and nothing else. You launched the boat into the water and watched it float, and as it started to bob away, you crouched down and tried to reach for it, further, further out, until your equilibrium crossed an invisible line and you fell in. Your splash was silent and insignificant in that vast lake. You turned for the dock but there was nothing for your small hands to grab, only a flat surface of wood that was bright green and slippery with algae. And anyway you were too small to figure out this problem; you called out for me and water filled your mouth.