I was sitting on the steps of the shallow end at the county pool, the water up to my chest. It was a Tuesday afternoon, nearly empty.
I had a crossword puzzle spread on a floating clipboard. The blue pen ran out halfway through 17-Across. I switched to a black one.
A few feet away, a grandmother was coaxing a little girl to put her face in the water. The girl was terrified.
The grandmother's voice was calm, patient. It reminded me of Vera, my ex-wife's mother.
After the divorce, Vera and I stayed in touch. She'd invite me over for coffee, and we'd do crosswords. She always used a different pen color for her letters.
One summer, she took me to this same pool. I was in my forties and still couldn't swim. She held me in the shallow end, her hands under my back, until I stopped thrashing.
That was the first time I floated. I never got to thank her properly. She died two years later.
The little girl finally dunked her head, came up sputtering and laughing. Her grandmother beamed.
I finished the crossword in two pens, folded it into my bag, and walked out. The water dripped off me, and I felt lighter than I had in months.