We’re at the public pool. Mayhem as usual. I sit on a grassy hill in the shade, alternately fiddling with my phone and checking to make sure my children are still alive. They can swim now. There are lifeguards everywhere. I need not be as vigilant as so many summers before. It’s a relief but I still haven’t learned how to relax. Every 100 seconds or so, my eyes scan the water. When I locate them—even when it takes a minute—they are bobbing along together in a sea of kid heads, engaged, smiling. I find a book online I want to download. A mystery. My favorite. When I next examine the pool, I spot only Libby. Alone. She bobs tentatively. My heart goes on alert. Nothing is wrong. I know of nothing amiss. But I don’t so much like them apart. Have they separated on purpose? Did Maris find a pool friend? Did Libby ditch her or drive her away? I look for Maris; don’t immediately find her. Finally my eyes pick out her little white-blonde head. Also alone. Libby doubles back from the direction she was headed. Maris bobs in place. Warmer, warmer. They spot each other at last. Libby throws her arms in the air in victory. They both shriek with glee. The two girls work through the water towards each other like magnets on springs, finally and inevitably connecting. My children throw their arms around each other and hold tight in the pool center for a good five heartbeats. I forget all about my phone and just sit still and feel happy.
