Water has been our haven, our refuge. I breathe in the calming smell of much-needed rain and laugh as my daughter jumps in puddles. I weep as I let the shower wash over me. Much of my work has focused on water. A decade ago, I collected rain water to freeze and melt, expressing emotions over the loss of glaciers and concern over this dwindling blue gold. Now, water’s meaning expands, as I watch my daughter go under the water, kick down, and come back up, gasping and laughing. I feel waves – waves of joy seeing her in these moments of fun, peace, and calm; waves of anger and grief over my own childhood. Water has memory (or so Olaf tells us)… and we’re made up of 60% water. So what does the body remember? I wonder, “does her body remember floating in the water in my womb?” We kick and swim, intertwined, our bodies distorted by water, pulling and pushing together, then apart. We breathe as one, forever connected, then she drifts away slowly.