Swimming Through Lightning

The pool was empty at 5 AM, which was exactly why Mara chose this hour. She pushed off the wall, her body cutting through the chlorinated water like a knife through silk. Swimming had become her religion since the miscarriage—a solitary communion where the only sound was her own breathing and the rhythmic splash of her stroke.

She'd been taking the prenatal vitamins for months now, a stubborn act of hope that Richard had gently suggested she abandon. "It's been two years," he'd said last night, his voice soft with the weight of their shared grief. "Maybe we should—" but he couldn't finish the sentence. Neither could she.

The thunderstorm outside had been brewing for hours. Mara surfaced between laps to see lightning fracture the sky, illuminating the ceiling-high windows in jagged bolts of white. She remembered how Richard had proposed during a storm like this, five years ago on a beach in Maine. They'd been friends first, colleagues who'd bonded over terrible coffee and worse deadlines at the advertising firm where they both worked.

That version of Richard—fearless, romantic—seemed like a stranger now. Grief had changed them both. He'd retreated into work, she'd retreated into water. They'd become experts at avoiding each other in their own apartment, two people bearing the same unbearable loss in entirely different ways.

Mara's hand brushed something in the water—another swimmer's goggles, perhaps—and the sensation brought her back to the present. She tread water for a moment, watching the storm rage beyond the glass. The pool lights cast wavering reflections on the ceiling, like underwater constellations.

She thought about the pamphlet the fertility specialist had given her yesterday. The one about donor eggs, about letting go of biological impossibilities. She'd left it in her bag, unread.

Another lightning strike, closer this time. The power flickered and died, plunging the pool into gray morning light. In the sudden quiet, Mara made a decision. She swam to the edge, pulled herself out of the water, and reached for her phone. Richard would be waking up soon. They'd make coffee together. They'd talk. Maybe they'd even open that pamphlet.

The storm would pass. They'd bear it. They always did.