I remember it being the first clear day of the whole week and the ground was still recovering with deep puddles all over the place - plenty for us to jump in. We promised each other that we'd wait until after school so we wouldn't have to sit in class all damp and cold. It was supposed to be a normal, fun little childhood moment that we'd fondly remember every now and then when we were old and had kids of our own who'd jump in the puddles just like we did.
There was no way we could have known just how deep some of them really were.
It was the one by the huge oak tree near the old mill house that caught us all out. It must have been a good five by eight feet - big enough for all of us to jump in at once - and we did. We held hands and jumped as high as we could, falling faster and deeper than we'd even dared to imagine.
Drowning before we realised what had happened.
Waking up in front of the puddle and seeing parts of ourselves floating on the surface while frantic adults came and whisked them away. Seeing our friends and families leave flowers by the police tape. Seeing a giant metal grate put over the puddle and seeing the world around us age and change while we remained exactly the same as the day we jumped into our last puddle.
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