Things underwater undulate; unless they are of rock or coral, they’ve no choice but to do so. Currents and waves, waves and currents…
I’d wondered if my loving to be underwater, sometimes as inanimate as the weeds floating by in that darkened, muted, softened environment — or my undulating atop it, was somehow a throwback to fetal floatings.
For me, possibly not, as there was surely yelling going on all around that little once-place! Not from above, but from without. I’d have heard it all in that door-slamming, plate-tossing, cuss-filled neighborhood.
Though perhaps it is from a there-memory, too… perhaps I heard strains above the whispered, frantic Hail Marys of what later lit her face, “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…” Who could not be softly rocked into freedom by such a tribute?
Maybe we just like to undulate. Or rather, be undulated. We have always known it. Air, water, love..