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27 Karen, Lost When, as our line of divers squeezed and twisted through the Catalina kelp, I glanced back and my new wife was gone, I gasped as if a Great White had sliced into me. On every side, greengold fronds shuddered, tall as trees. Screams die in water, so I bonged my steel tank with my knife. Our teacher finned my way. “Karen’s lost!” I tried to say in signs, picturing her eyes as kelp wrapped her, and air ran out. My own lungs ached as Teacher vanished in the fronds, then reappeared—in hours, or instants?—Karen lagging behind. As a child, captivated by some squirrel or toy Santa banging a drum, she drifted away from her mom. I waited alone at the altar, “Here Comes the Bride” repeating as she floundered, lost, through St. Matthew’s dark halls. Now, belly swollen, breasts too tender to touch, she’s lost again. Will we ever find our way back to bass nibbling from our hands, Garibaldis flashing orange, joy lighting twin bonfires in her eyes? Will she become my son’s mother, and nothing more? Will labor drown her, as it has so many wives? No use to plead, “Hold 28 my hand tight.” When her mom tied a rope to her waist, she slipped the knot and strolled away. Karen, I’ll look for you, I swear. I’ll bang on my tank night and day. I’ll personally comb all Seven Seas, holding in mind your eyes under the ocean: blissful to be there. I’ll clasp your hands when you push through the fronds of childbirth and swim with you into the sparkling air. ...

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