Water Running Through Time

Margaret sat on the porch swing, watching her grandchildren splash in the above-ground pool their father had set up that morning. At seventy-eight, she no longer ran anywhere—her knees had made sure of that—but her mind still raced through memories like water seeking its own level.

"Grandma, come in!" called little Lily, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. "The water's perfect!"

Margaret smiled, shaking her head. "You go ahead, sweet pea. Grandma's done her swimming for this lifetime."

She thought back to summers at her parents' farm, where the creek wound through the back pasture like a silver ribbon. She and her brothers had spent whole days in that water, catching minnows in jar cups, their skin turning to raisins, their spirits running wild with freedom. Those same brothers were gone now, buried beneath the very earth they'd once roamed.

The pool pump hummed its constant rhythm, circulating water that would eventually grow stagnant without movement. Life was like that, she mused—you had to keep running, keep moving, or the peace you'd built would begin to sour.

Her granddaughter climbed out, dripping and shivering, and wrapped herself in a towel Margaret had knitted during those long winter months when arthritis kept her indoors. The girl's dampness seeped into Margaret's shoulder as she leaned against her.

"Why don't you swim anymore?" Lily asked, her voice earnest.

Margaret kissed the top of her wet head. "Because sometimes, sweetheart, the best part of water is watching it move through other hands. I did my running. Now it's your turn to make waves."