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I leave my waterproof watch next to my clothes on the deck, because time has no place with me here. I leave my heavy boots, my phone and all of the people in it, and everything they say and do and ask, because as much as I love them, they are a weight, too. I leave the holes left by the departed, lest I drown in them; I leave my ears awash with nonsense. I leave today’s news, and tomorrow’s. I leave my family, even my tiny, vulnerable mother, because sometimes their need is an ocean I can’t swim. I leave work and my shadow who sits at the desk, who can do without me for a while. I leave the recriminations and debts of the past, and the borrowed worries of the future, until the deck is cluttered and I am light. I take only what I need: the oars of my arms, torso like a floating log, legs that flutter and trail like a tail, my lungs like twin bellows, the kissing cousins of my mouth and nose, my goggled fish eyes that track the floor’s lost leaves and earplugs, earrings and pool rings. I join the sun and the clouds, the strangers who glide by me, sometimes sliding their smooth sides against mine, all of us moving forward, sometimes on our backs, together yet blissfully alone, while everywhere the water, scooped and flicked, swallowed and spat, chlorinated, chilled, and heated, deluging us with salted memories: thrown above the surface by beefy arms, summersaulting underwater like pinwheels, illicit deep-end kisses. The whistle of the swim team, the air horn of lifeguarding, laughter, shouts, sunburn, soaring cannonballs, coconut-scented lotion, bikinis, and Grandma’s swim cap awash in rubber daisies. All of it, every treasured memory, dream, and hope, churned up by our thrashing, buoying us up, washing us clean, wringing us out, beckoning us to depart the land, so we can swim back to it renewed.
Author's Note:
Every six weeks I buckle myself into my Subaru for the three-hour drive up north to visit my mother, now 91 and widowed. For many years, as much as I loved seeing my family, I resisted this solo weekend trip. It was too tiring, and I was too busy with work and raising small children. I realized recently that in addition to enjoying moments with Mom, I now look forward to the drive. I have uninterrupted, precious time to think, my mind completely free to range across miles, to go forward or, just as valuable, to sometimes go in reverse.
Lynn Mundell is editor of Centaur and co-founder of 100 Word Story. Her writing has been published in Tin House, Booth, SmokeLong Quarterly, Best Microfiction, a W.W. Norton Anthology, and elsewhere. Lynn’s chapbook Let Our Bodies Be Returned to Us was published by the University of South Carolina in 2022.
I'm so happy you came and swan in my pool. You need to come and do it again.