I am scrubbing a casserole dish at the kitchen sink. My mother is drying beside me.
She pulls open the junk drawer. A blue swim cap falls out. It's from junior year, 200 medley relay.
She holds it up and asks if I still have it. I shrug. Then she says the only thing she's ever said about Dave: "I always thought you two would stay in touch."
Dave was my teammate. He signed up for the Army the week after we graduated. I tuned pianos for base officers, he learned to shoot. We made promises to write. I kept none.
That night, I dial his old number. The recording says it's no longer in service. I leave a voicemail anyway.
I tell him about the swim cap, the junk drawer, the casserole dish. I say, "I'm still here, doing dishes at my mom's house."
I don't say goodbye. I just hang up and listen to the water drip in the sink.