Now I’m sitting on the back ledge of Tom’s boat, watching another swim lesson. I allow my eyes a moment’s rest from you, take in the trees on the bank that seemed to have transformed overnight from an end-of-summer pale green to subtle hues of red and orange and yellow. In another month, maybe even a few weeks, they will all be brown.

“Good job, Pearl,” Tom says, treading water beside you. His voice is steady, even in the exertion.

“Can we work on our underwater swimming again?” you ask.

I continue to be amazed at your commitment to this delusion. It concerns me more than I can explain.

“What about freestyle?” Tom suggests. “That’s usually a good first stroke to learn.”

You shake your head. “I’d really like to swim underwater.”

“Okay,” Tom says. “How do you feel about diving?”

He spends the next hour teaching you to dive off the back of the boat, even convincing me to get in the cold water so I can wait for you. After the first few times, mostly belly flops, you start to get the hang of it. You come up from the water right in front of me, gasping for air, smiling, blinking the lake out of your eyes. You wrap your arms around my neck and laugh, and I would do anything for you in those moments, forgive any misadventure.

“Go back farther,” you say. “I want to see how far I can go under the water.”

So I do, and after the hour is up, with a few tips from Tom, you are swimming so far underwater that I find myself holding my own breath, waiting for you to come up.

“Nice job!” I cry, laughing out loud when you come up far from the boat.

“One more time!” you say.

“One more, and then we have to get out. I’m freezing.”

You jump from the boat again, slipping into the water like a sewing needle piercing cloth, and in those short moments when you are gone from me, I think of Mary.

Only the Deepest Pools Remain

We eat the quiet lunch of people exhausted after some worthy pursuit, slowly chewing our sandwiches and bananas and drinking hot tea to warm us up. You eat your apple down to the core, nibbling at the sweet fruit that remains around the stem. You keep looking up at Tom and me, smiling a melancholy, knowing smile.

“How about a nap?” I suggest, and you nod, your eyes heavy.

I leave you sleeping in your room and rest on the sofa in the living room. There is no sign of Tom, and the house feels empty, so I stand up, walk into the kitchen, and glance at the garage, but I can’t tell if he’s home or has gone into town.

I wander the house, not looking for anything in particular. There’s a quiet room on the third floor with a small rocking chair in front of a picture window that stares out over the lake. I fall asleep there, warm and mellow.