Swimming
We have the same swimsuit, green with orange trimming and a gold crown logo sewn into the bottom right of our one pieces. Every week, we go to swimming practice on the school bus together. We are learning freestyle and how to dive off the edge of the pool. At the end of laps, we are given 5 minutes free time and we spend the time trying to reach the bottom of the deep end without having to come up for air. The depth of the pool seemed like infinity then, blue with a spiral of air bubbles. Our hair moving like streaks of slow paint underwater, our laughter gurgling and goggles misting up.
One day, we have to swim as many laps as we can of the Olympic pool. After the first 5, there is a relaxed rhythm of legs kicking and coming up for air. I watch for the halfway line marker and imagine it chasing me up the lane like on TV. Or there was the time we did a relay race, but instead of diving off gracefully off the blocks, we jump in legs first. We still finished the race.
The bus trip home is always quiet. We are slumped in our seats, wet hair staining our shirts. The gentle ache of stretched muscles and the chlorine tightening the skin. Next stop is mine. I swing the red cloth satchel I stole from aunt over my shoulder and wave to you.
I miss swimming.
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