Palms of Memory

Every morning, I sit on my porch with my vitamin C tablet and orange juice, watching the palm tree sway in the breeze. It was planted the year my grandfather built this house, back when I was just learning to swim in the creek behind our property.

That old bull—my grandfather, not the animal—was the most stubborn man I ever knew. He insisted I learn to swim properly, not just splash about like the other children. 'A man should respect the water,' he'd say, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in that familiar bull-headed way.

I remember a summer afternoon when I was twelve, determined to swim across the creek's deepest point. Halfway across, panic set in. My arms felt like lead. I started going under. Suddenly, strong hands gripped my waist, lifting me up—gasping, coughing, but alive.

My grandfather hauled me onto the grassy bank, both of us dripping wet. He didn't scold me. Instead, he placed his weathered palm against my cheek and said, 'The water doesn't respect foolishness, but it does respect courage.' Then he taught me how to rest on my back, how to breathe, how to let the water hold me up.

'Like this,' he demonstrated, floating effortlessly. 'When you stop fighting, it becomes easier.'

That lesson carried me through seventy-five years. Through marriage, children, grandchildren, and now great-grandchildren. Through loss and grief, through triumphs and disappointments.

Now, at eighty-two, I still swim three times a week. The arthritis in my hands reminds me of the way his looked—gnarled but strong. And every morning, as I take my vitamins and watch that palm tree sway, I thank the bull who taught me that some lessons float with you forever.