tread

Swimming laps at the pool, treading water as a dive my head down under the water and resurface again to breathe. Notwithstanding the capacity of my lungs, I could live down there below the surface for hours. Clear, clean, crystal blue waters. The muffled and muddied sounds of reverberant screams and chatter in this indoor environment. The pool is not heated, but cool and cold against my skin, waking me up from a not-too-long-ago slumber. My swimcap is on and wrapped tightly around my head like the rubber menace it is. I remember as a young girl, feeling immense frustration at trying to get my whole head of very thick, very large and long mane of hair inside this glorified head condom. Treading water whether in motion or in place, I watch as my cupped hands pull the water back and propel me forward. Freestyle, head side to side, one arm after the other, legs kicking or out swimming frog-leg style. I remember summer swimming lessons at the summer pool. My instructor was a nice, young woman with brown hair, brown eyes, and a one piece bathing suit that was likely red in solidarity with lifeguard colors. I liked her. We would practice with kickboards and holding our breath underwater, as well as opening our eyes underwater. Everything I know about swimming I primarily learned from her, allowing me to partake in field trips and birthday parties, social visits and beach trips.

Author: Roe

29. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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