the pool

the sounds of children laughing and lifeguard whistles punctuate the view. the hot concrete under our bare feet—the stubbed toes and cool first aid cream to soothe them. i picture the scene in preparation for a swim meet, the lane lines being pulled across the deck like wide snakes, swirling toward the water, bobbing faithfully at the surface to guide our lithe bodies the length of the pool. the turquoise paint chipping from the worn wooden blocks, poised at the edge of the starting line—awaiting the small feet that will perch atop as a baby robin on the rim of the nest. the throb of the gunshot in my ears as i dive out into the warm embrace of the chlorinated bath. the faint cheers and shouts of Tom the Dog. his athletic socks barely visible as i near the opposite end, his arm pinwheeling in a motion only meant to suggest "go faster!" i cannot identify the girls on either side of me, i am only focused on the finish line. my bullseye, looming closer with each frantic kick. my hand smacks the wall with a force reserved for bad children when daddy gets home. it stings slightly as i dart my head above the surface to survey the finish. clear. both sides free from bobbing heads and outstretched hands. i am the winner.