Dear Harold,
The shallow end of the public pool here in the desert is exactly three feet six inches deep. Rosa, my home health aide, holds my arm as I step down the ladder.
First time I've been in a pool since I retired from the phone company. The water is warm, chlorine stings my eyes.
I remember teaching you to swim in the shallow end of the city pool. You were six, scared of the water. I held you under your belly until you kicked.
You learned. We were close then. Before the silence.
Rosa said, 'You're smiling.' I didn't realize I was. She doesn't know about you. The landline in my room rings once a year—your birthday call. I never pick up.
The shallow end is all I need now. The water holds me the way I held you. I'm sorry I never told you that I remember that summer too.