My mother always says, “A little water never hurt anyone.”

She means, don’t worry if you get caught in the rain. You’re not made of sugar. You won’t melt.

She means, don’t worry if you knock over your water glass at that fancy restaurant on your second date, and the glass breaks and soaks the front of your brand new satin slip dress. There are paper towels in the restroom, or if you’re lucky, a hand dryer. And if a little spill sends him running, he’s not worth chasing.

She means, don’t worry if the basement floods just before you move out of your first house. You need to get rid of all that junk anyway.

After they move to Florida because she wants a lanai, a hurricane literally blows the roof off, but she doesn’t blame the storm. “You have to laugh,” she says, and calls a contractor. But it’s not funny as you to have badger the insurance company for months until the claim comes through, and you begin a rest-of-your-life-long hatred of that soggy peninsula. 

She doesn’t tell you how much it hurts after your water breaks.

And that the baby will scream when the priest dribbles his forehead from the baptismal fount.

And that the blister on the five-year-old’s left knee will get infected when he pops that tender little bubble with grubby little fingers.

Or that his sister will have to wear a patch for weeks when he (accidently) blasts her right eye with that damn SuperSoaker toy he got for Christmas. 

Or senior year, when his two best friends drown in Lake Michigan testing the ice at midnight, and we hear that drowning itself is painless, but those left behind will be forever drowning in pain.

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My mother dies that same January and it takes us months to decide what to do with her cremated remains. In the end, on a beautiful autumn day, we go back to the lake house she sold before moving to Florida. We order a dozen leis direct from Hawaii and borrow a canoe. Too late, we realize we probably should have gotten some kind of permit before slipping her ashes into the water and floating the leis on the sparkling surface. We want to watch as they drift slowly away but are afraid of getting caught, so we take a mental picture and paddle quickly back to shore.

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Susan Bearman is a writer/editor currently focused on short fiction. She has published a picture book, stories, articles, and essays. After four children, Susan finally figured out she could name as many characters as she wanted without paying for food, braces, or college. A long-time member of Off Campus Writers’ Workshop (ocww.org), she currently serves as co-editor of their anthologyTilt and managing editor of the writing craft column About Write. Find her at bearman.us, susanbearman.bsky.social, and instagram.com/bearmansusan/