The Weight of Falling Water

The air before a storm tastes like wet slate and ozone, a metallic tang that settles on the back of the tongue. I remember standing near a great rush of water once, where the spray was not just mist, but a physical weight against my skin. It felt like a thousand cool, frantic fingers tapping against my cheeks, soaking through the fabric of my shirt until the cotton clung to my ribs like a second, heavier skin. There is a specific roar that vibrates in the hollow of your chest, a sound so deep it bypasses the ears and speaks directly to the bones. It is the sound of surrender, of everything letting go at once to tumble into the dark. We spend our lives trying to stay dry, trying to keep our edges defined, but isn’t there a secret longing to be dissolved by something much larger than ourselves? What happens to the spirit when it finally stops holding its breath?

Magda Biskup has captured this overwhelming sensation in her photograph titled “Iguazu.” The way the water seems to breathe and collide reminds me of that same heavy, wet air I once knew. Can you feel the spray against your own skin as you look?