from The Cat’s Table, by Michael Ondaatje

They cannot see each other, and he can barely feel her within his arms because of the cold. And breath… time is running out and they surface into the black air and inhale everything into themselves, gasp more breath in. All he must do is not let her go yet, this daughter he cannot see, can barely feel with his blunt fingers. But at least they are in the air now, on the surface, the skin of the Mediterranean, a hint of a moon, a hint of a light on a distant shore.

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