Week 29: Mangrove: The Forest

Damp swamp. The words must have been born together, as a pair. These trees won't drown. I've been wandering for days, climbing on dented roots, my shoes wet and slippery. I don't dare to think about my toes, bruised and cold, and with brown, sweaty fingers I grab the trees, the heat beats my forehead and my hair sticks to my neck. The forest doesn't seem to end, as if I've been born here, like I've never seen anything else than these high trunks over winding roots stuck in knee-high water.
Then suddenly the air gets fresh, like lighter to breathe, the rotten smell vanishes and small waves bob up and down against the bark. I realize I've reached the bay, the water is turquoise and small, colorful fish seem to float over intricately towering coral reeves. I sit down on the last roots, in the sunshine, pull off my shoes and let my bare, suffering feet drop into the warm, salty water. The dirt is gently washed away and I know I'll always stay here.