Thursday, July 31, 2014
Every weekday morning, the boys swim for an hour. Cal is assigned to a lane near the row of white plastic lounge chairs where I like to sit, and as I read, the arc of his arm glinting in the rising sun catches my eye, again and again, as do his rhythmic breaths. His movements are distinctively his.
The poolside is festively social. Women clad in bias-cut skirts and sandals, racerback tanktops and shorts and bright, pretty sundresses watch their children; younger siblings play. This morning I overheard a man telling another about a cake his wife made over the weekend, with almond paste. A toddler belonging to one of them, poised, ballerina-like, flitted around my field of vision, a dainty cloud of white-blond French braids in a smocked pink swimsuit.
Our tomato plants are as tall as me; love the run of dry, hot weeks we’ve had. The heavy sweetness of butterfly bush continually fills and overwhelms the hot, stagnant air, intermingling with the sun-baked mint.
Cal hasn’t been able to sleep until the heat abates with the last of the light. The past couple of nights, he dragged a sleeping bag onto the deck off our bedroom, where there is always a slight breeze from the water. In silence, interrupted by the occasional call of Canadian geese, I read electronically in my Adirondack chair; he read comic books by flashlight. The crescent moon set as his breathing slowed and deepened in his plunge to sleep. The sound was as familiar as my own breath.