Seasons in the Water

At seventy-three, I still swim my morning laps in the backyard pool, though the strokes are gentler now. The water holds memories—the way my daughter learned to butterfly here, the way my wife Mary used to float on summer Sundays reading, the way the ripples catch morning light like scattered diamonds.

Now my teenage grandchildren play padel on the adjacent court, a sport I'd never heard of at their age. They shout and laugh, their sneakers squeaking, racquets popping against ball, while I count my laps. One, two, three... breathe. The rhythm centers me.

"Grandpa!" Sophie calls from the patio. "Grandma wants you—it's important!"

I pull myself from the water, joints reminding me of every year I've earned. Mary sits on her favorite bench, her iphone propped against a jar of homemade pickles.

"They're in Egypt," she says, eyes bright. "Your brother sent photos. Look at the pyramids."

I swim over to squint at the screen. Ancient stone triangles rise from desert sands, and suddenly I'm twenty again, backpacking through dusty sands with Mary, young and foolish and impossibly in love. We promised each other we'd build something lasting.

"We did," I whisper, squeezing her hand.

"What?" she asks, but I just shake my head.

Later, I return to my pool. The grandchildren have quieted, Sophie scrolling through her own phone, Marco stretched on a lounge chair. I slip back into the water, one stroke, two, three. The pool holds everything—the way we've built our own pyramid of memories, layer by layer, stone by stone. Love and laughter and grief and growth, all piled into something that stands against time.

I think of those ancient Egyptians, of Mary and me young and wandering, of these children who'll one day stand in their own pools, watching their own grandchildren play sports we can't imagine. The water knows. The water holds it all.

One stroke, two, three. Still swimming. Still building. Still here.