My
son stands on the lip of the
pool, looking down. Inflatable bright orange "
Swim Easy" flotation cushions jut out awkwardly from each skinny arm, and a bright blue
life jacket is strapped across his (barely) three year old chest. Sunlight, pounding and hot, is caught in the clear
chlorinated water and reflected back in countless,
shimmering dots of light. He
squints and
scrunches his face at its intensity. He eyes the water
longingly, envious of the kids already moving through it.
I want him to jump in.
If I could, I would
inhabit him, have him throw away the "Swim Easy" and life jacket, dive into the
shallow water, feel the
coolness moving swiftly around me, swim the length of the pool
beneath the surface, come up with a slight
gasp at the far end, shake the water from my hair. I would see the
pool, the
parents, the
other kids, through his eyes, and he would
not fear any of it anymore.
Squinting at the bright
crystal waters, toes curling over the warm concrete
lip of the pool, he stands still, waiting, not yet
ready to jump in.