The Girl Who Could Not Float

When I was eight years old, I decided that learning to swim was a necessity. My parents took my sister and me to the local community centre every weekend. We used to have this plastic, yellow, sand-filled baseball bat. I remember the weight of it in my small hands. The first thing we learned was how to float on our backs. It was not very easy at all. My sister, however, took to it immediately.

I remember this one afternoon, our mother was watching us from the side. She told me, 'Just look up at the ceiling and relax your body. Imagine you are a bear.' I looked up at the ceiling, but my legs kept sinking. My sister drifted lazily, eyes closed. I could only doggy-paddle.

The next time we went, I wore a red swimsuit. Our mother asked me, 'Aren't you going to wear your blue one?' I said, 'I like red better.' I think she understood. She tried to teach me again, and I drank so much water. I remember the taste of it. Not sweet, but not completely plain either. A little bit like the water you use to cook pasta.

I remember our mother always wore something on her left wrist. It was a bracelet of pure, black silk with a single, white, enameled palm as its centrepiece. It seemed like it was made of bone. The palm had these small, delicate fronds etched in gold. I think I only remember it because she never took it off. She even wore it into the water.

I still don't know how to swim. It feels like something we should have kept trying. My sister and I still talk about it. Now we joke about the lessons. There is a certain warmth in those memories. A certain comfort. I think I'm happy to have them.