My sister never went past the three-foot line at Maplewood Pool. She'd stand there kicking, chin right at the water, perfectly happy.
She died eleven months ago. I haven't been back to the pool since. I couldn't even take Maplewood Road home from work.
In my wallet there's a school photo of her from fourth grade. I cropped it myself with scissors so it'd fit behind my driver's license. The edges are still uneven.
A letter came last week from her old pen pal in Oregon. They'd written each other since 1987. The woman said she'd been waiting for a reply, then she read the obituary online.
She said she was sorry. She said Deb had been her longest friendship.
That letter cracked something open. I drove to Maplewood this morning and got in the shallow end.
The water was cold and exactly where I left it. I stood at the three-foot line and kicked.
I didn't cry. I just stood where she stood and let the water hold me the way it used to hold her.