Rebecca Elmore
Sitting on the ledge,
I hesitantly plop into the water.
Today is good.
It’s cool, not like bathwater.
I take a deep breath,
allow myself to go under.
My toes scrape concrete
as I push off the wall,
arms extended overhead.
I wait until I see
the familiar rectangular vent
in the corner of my left eye,
my self-designated place
to rise.
A tiny gasp for air.
No saltwater today, I observe.
Another breath
I’m face down again,
arms propelling,
rhythmically rocking,
toes pointed,
legs methodically kicking.
I am mesmerized
by kaleidoscope images
created by the impact of my blades.
Silently counting in my head,
blocking out babies crying,
promising not to do
whatever caused them to be
subjected to their perceived torture,
the lifeguard tweeting,
the ohhs and ahhs from the diving board.
I reach the wall.
Red Shorts says, “How it going?”
A fake smile creeps out,
and I pretend not to see
his rampant black back hair.
A quick tug at the suit from two years ago,
Another breath and I’m under.
Forty-nine more laps to go.