Jump

I always loved going to the pool. We went every Saturday night, for $2 each. The chlorine would sting my eyes, leaving them red and sore, and looking up at the bright yellow lights would hurt, every time.

I wasn't an athletic swimmer, I didn't know any particular strokes or skills, but I was always happy in the water, happiest floating. 

There were tiny windows in the main room of our public pool, high up on the side. I would float on my back with my ears immersed, and watch the sky fade from bright to dark, knowing the big red and blue clock would soon strike 9 and our time would be up.

 

I remember being small enough to need water wings, small enough to jam my arms through the fat pink triangles of plastic and air, reveling in the wonder of being able to launch myself into the pool without anyone there to catch me ... but Grampie was always there to catch me.

He would hold me in his thin, strong arms and then let me go, carefully, keeping one hand, four fingers, three fingers, two fingers, then - impossibly, thrillingly - just one finger on my back to hold me up against the tyranny of gravity. 

One night, we were all there - the unexceptional, ordinary collective We that made up my world: my parents and grandparents, my young and silly and sweet aunts, my three older sisters, my baby brother who was basically just a bundle of blankets. And I was squatting on the deck, by the ladder, waiting for Grampie to put out his arms for me. And his eyes got very far away and his face was suddenly grey.

“Dad.” my mom said. And suddenly they were gone.

And of course, there were water wings and swimming lessons and I never think twice about swimming but I just 

can't 

bring myself to jump in.

I will wade in and climb in and slip in.

But part of me is still waiting for that kind, lean old man to say, “jump.”