The Weight of Water

The old bear of a man sat at the edge of the dock, his feet dangling above the dark water. Marcus had been swimming in this lake every summer for forty years, but this was the first time he'd come alone.

Three months ago, Thomas had died here — a heart attack while swimming, they said. Quick. Painless. As if death could ever be painless for the living.

Marcus stripped down to his shorts, his aging body bearing witness to decades of hard labor and harder living. The same body that had once raced Thomas across this lake, both of them young and invincible, convinced the water would never let them down.

He slipped into the lake. The shock of cold caught his breath, just as it always had. Thomas had loved that moment — the gasp, the sudden clarity, the way the cold made everything simple.

Marcus began to swim, stroke after stroke, each one a conversation with a ghost. You were supposed to be the careful one, he thought. You with your vitamins and your morning jogs and your goddamn plans for retirement.

A real friend would have lived long enough to grow old with me. A real friend wouldn't have left Marcus alone with their shared history, with no witness to the life they'd built.

But then, Marcus hadn't been such a great friend either. Hadn't visited enough in the final years. Had let work and marriages and divorces and the business of living crowd out the one person who'd known him since they were both scared boys with more dreams than prospects.

He reached the middle of the lake and trod water, breathing hard. The old bear in him — that protective, gruff exterior he'd worn like armor — suddenly felt lighter. Perhaps that was the real burden Thomas had left him: not grief, but the terrible responsibility of memory. Of being the only one left who remembered the races, the secrets, the way Thomas had looked when Marcus told him he was getting married for the first time — sad, genuinely sad, before pasting on a smile.

Marcus turned back toward shore. The swim had seemed impossible just minutes ago. Now, each stroke felt like an act of forgiveness — for Thomas, for himself, for the friendship that had been perfect in its imperfection.

He emerged from the water gasping, alive, and for the first time in months, not alone.