I wonder if they think of me when they carelessly float across this never-ending abyss of uncertainty. Do they ponder what lies beneath these veiled waters? Flooded towns beneath lakes hold the histories of people whose identities were all but washed away. But the deep, dark, seemingly bottomless waters of the oceans hold so much more.

Can they fathom the depths of despair I must have felt to dive into this sea of certain peril? Can they look into their souls to see why someone might seek death as the only way to free their own? Can they even begin to wrap their ignorant minds around such empathy?

The water these boats float on is calm, clear, and silent now. No flailing battle against the inevitable. No blood to beckon the carnivores of the deep. No screams swiftly drowned with gasps for air. To fight implies that there was something worth fighting for.  To bleed means that we were…human. 

To breathe, only to have that breath taken away.

For any…thing, at any…time, for…no…thing. 

Nothing. For that is how they saw us.

I wonder if they think of my body buried in the sands deep below these still unchartered waters. Could they fathom the fact that it was my choice to place my body there? I chose my time. I chose my place. I chose my destiny. It was my final act—to take back the control usurped from me.

I look up from my eternal, watery grave. I see the sun cast a shadow over these boats. The world between the ray of light and the surface of the boats illuminated by the clean, smooth, shiny object so coveted by the visitors to this island. The view from below is of one who is now forever looking to the heavens, choosing to escape from a certain life of hell on Earth.

I look up and see the shadows of the boat’s underbellies. Along the surface, I see the silhouettes of a man, a woman, and a child. Do they think of the men, women, and children who chose this fate over what would inevitably greet them if they somehow survived the treacherous journey and made it to shore?

Amistad.

I wonder if they think of me as they sojourn to this dock and pick out their luxurious vessels. These elaborate boats epitomize the excess many “outsiders” to the Lowcountry now boast. They lie on racks that sit on docks built on what used to be sacred Gullah Geechee lands. The vessels remind me of different types of “objects” that were lined up for others to choose from.

I wonder if they chose their boats in the same way our masters chose… us.

Which boats were sturdier? Which boats were faster? Which boats were prettier?

“I’m not sure that one would last too long.”

“That one looks big and strong.”

“What a beautiful specimen! I’ll take that one!”

Humans, animals, boats. I’m sure it was all the same to them.

I wonder if they ever think of me, you, him, her,… us?

We are they, and they are we.

I think about what is, what was, and what forever will be.

Selah.