Touch The Wall

Two-oh-five. Lane three. The filter gauge is in the green. The clock above the shallow end is seven minutes fast. I leave it that way. Right hand on the gutter. Let the left one open when it can. No, don't apologize to me. The water doesn't need a plan. Your cane lies straight beneath the bench. Your towel covers half the sign. You lower down the ladder one cold rung at a time. At the first blue mark, you lose the kick. You roll and watch the beams. Four breaths looking at the ceiling. Then you turn back to the seam. The physio wrote twelve meters in the box beside your name. You crossed out twelve and wrote, “the wall.” I kept the pen that day. Touch the wall when you're ready. Not for the clock, not for me. I will walk beside the water. Follow the black line at your speed. Touch the wall when you're ready. Let the old lane hold your weight. No one here is taking seconds. No one here will call it late. At tile nine, your left arm drifts. My shoe moves toward the rail. You say, “Don't put your hands in.” You say it once, and mean it plain. Two kicks. One breath. The gutter throws them twice. Your red cap slips and turns beside you. COACH faces up in white. You taught by naming little things: chin down, elbow high, follow the black line to the wall, let the ceiling travel by. Now the pool gives back each breath larger than it leaves your mouth. You hear how close the wall has come before you turn to count. Touch the wall when you're ready. Not for the chart, not for me. I will walk beside the water. Follow the black line at your speed. Touch the wall when you're ready. Let your red cap lead the way. No one here is taking seconds. You decide what counts today. Forty-two summers ago, I hit the deep end wrong. I remember bubbles over faces, then your whistle, sharp and long. You pulled me up beneath the shoulders. Next morning, lane one, half past eight, you made me put my feet back in and counted every shake. I married the lifeguard with the whistle. I kept it in our kitchen drawer. After the stroke, you made me promise: walk beside the lane, nothing more. You said, “Don't drag me through the water. Don't praise each inch I make. Walk beside me where I see you. Tell me how much lane remains.” Touch the wall when you're ready. I won't reach into your lane. The hand that pulled me from the deep end moves an inch and moves again. Touch the wall when you're ready. The red cap turns in place. You press your palm against the last tile, then ask me for your cane. Your palm stays flat against the wall. You breathe until the echo shrinks. Then you ask, “Same time tomorrow?” The clock says two-twenty-three. Still seven minutes fast. “Same time,” I say.