That last summer my parents were married
we had an above-ground pool—
big blue circle of a perfect July,
envy of all the neighbor kids
who rode their bikes over,
propped kickstands and climbed
feet-first into cold. The water reached
my chest. We played Marco Polo
for weeks, trying to lose each other
in a pool too small to hide
much of anything aside from the
cracked side that eventually collapsed,
filling our basement with swift-
muddied chlorinated water. My parents
did not replace the pool, and by summer
next, everyone save my father lived
in an apartment. My sister and I
did not mourn the change
of address—our new place had
friends aplenty, and in the center
of the complex was a bright clear
pool, adorned with umbrella tables
and two diving boards. Tell me,
what more could a kid want?
Header photograph © K Weber.
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