The World I Come From

I have a genetic tendency to worry. 

Passed down through my father's grandfather, who decided not to teach his son to swim for fear he'd drown in the process--

Worry accompanied by the knowledge of its rationality.

They had a lost a son to the ocean. 

Passed down through my father, whose parents left him and went on a camping trip-- after two days, he called the ranger, asked to check that they were alive and well-- he was 40, it was all the same--

My father's list is the speed-dial of his ever-present cellphone. 

1-- All messages

2-- His sister, Barbara

3--His younger sister, Lorraine

4-- His wife

5--Nana

6--Connie

7--Me

Passed down to me, morbidly cataloguing my friends most likely to kill themselves in pursuit of adventure. Friends who feel the most, or numb themselves worst. My mental list. 

We resort to survival strategies-- one summer, my mom watched all seven kids, cousins and sisters and brothers, me in her arms, the rest in the merced river. Not an L.A. river, bound in concrete angles, limited: a Yosemite river, with rapid swaths of white and deceptively slippery rocks and mournful trees, hiding the riverbank with their hair of branches. 

one two three four five six seven. She kept up a vigil of counting. 

one two three four five six seven. 

We fill our minds with equally possible events, each riveting to contemplate. 

And there is something safe-feeling about being complete in my little universe.

One two three. 

My family. 

My friends.

My habits. 

The worries keep me in the backseat, make my voice wobble at important moments, make me doubt where each action will take me. 

What if?

I keep an open mind.