My mother’s junk drawer was a museum of small, useless things. I found a blue swim cap with a rubber flower on it. She wore it every Saturday at the YMCA pool.
I sat on the kitchen floor holding it. I remembered her teaching me to float. She never let go until I said I was ready.
Across the yard, I saw the garage. The roof I was forbidden to climb as a kid. I had a sudden need to be up there.
I grabbed a ladder from the shed. It wobbled under my boots. I hauled myself onto the flat tar-and-gravel surface.
From up here I could see the whole block. The tree where my training wheels came off. My father running beside me, hand on the seat, then letting go.
I stayed up there until the streetlights came on. Nobody saw me. Nobody needed to.
I came down and put the swim cap back in the drawer. I left everything else exactly where it was.