Molly McGinn

CHAPTER SEVEN

No stamp necessary.

I floated on my back in a saltwater pool in my favorite Nordstrom dress. My friend Harvey and I had spent the afternoon at a friend’s house taking pictures for the album. The house and pool sat on the highest point of the property, a country estate in Davidson County with a long gravel driveway and landscaped gardens—265 miles east of the Great Dismal Swamp.

Golden hour was underway. Harvey sat atop a painter’s ladder we had set up in the shallow end of the pool. I slipped along under the A-frame ladder, trying to stay in frame. I looked up at Harvey, holding the camera, clicking away as I plunged under.

Coming up for air, floating there, I tried to quiet the cold quivers of a saltwater swim in early May. I thought about Moses Grandy. I thought about the swamp. I tried not to think about what my mom would think about me swimming in my favorite Nordstrom dress. And I thought about her—my lady of Lake Drummond, smoking cigars and setting off fireworks.

I took a picture of that moment in my mind and sent it back to myself, via virtual postcard. Sent it back to that girl with the overdue library books googling for water. I would have hung it on my fridge like a postcard from a friend with its joyful, jotted note, “Wish you here.” Adventures to come.

I took a breath, went under and thought, “Finally. Found a free place to swim.”

Download the album, “Postcards from the Swamp.”

See Monkeywhale’s photos from the CD release at Triad Stage.