The Summer We Learned to Fly

Martha sat on the bench beside the pool, watching seven-year-old Leo paddle determinedly from one end to the other. The September sun warmed her arthritic knees, and she smiled remembering how her brother Henry had taught her to swim sixty-five years ago in the old quarry hole.

"Grandma, watch!" Leo shouted, executing a clumsy but enthusiastic freestyle stroke.

"I see you, my little fish," Martha called back. "Just like I used to swim when I was your age."

She thought back to that summer of 1958, when running through the clover fields felt like flying. They'd run until their chests burned, Henry and she, racing the wind itself to nowhere in particular. Now her running days were done, replaced by morning walks and the careful navigation of stairs.

Leo pulled himself from the pool, dripping and grinning. "What's for lunch?"

"Papaya," Martha said, watching his face wrinkle in suspicion. "Your grandfather found some beautiful ones at the market. They remind me of my father—Papa brought the first one home from the city in 1953. None of us had ever seen anything like it. We ate it with spoons, sitting on the front porch, pretending we were tropical royalty instead of farm kids in Ohio."

Leo made a face but climbed onto the lounge chair beside her. "Was it good?"

"Everything tastes magical when you're eight and it's something you've never experienced before," Martha said gently. "That's the secret, you know. Growing old isn't about losing things. It's about carrying all those magical firsts inside you—first swim, first papaya, first time you felt brave enough to jump off the high dive."

She thought about the cable TV Henry had installed for their parents' anniversary in 1983, how her mother had marveled at seeing the ocean on a screen. Now Leo carried a tablet that held the world, yet here he was, content to splash in a chlorinated pool and listen to his grandmother's stories.

"Grandma?"

"Yes, Leo?"

"When you're done swimming in heaven, will you still remember running with me?"

Martha felt tears prick her eyes. "Oh, my sweet boy. I'll be doing more than remembering. I'll be waiting for you, so we can run together, and I'll finally show you what real swimming feels like—no splashing required."