The Swimmers

by Julie Otsuka

cancer would be better, you may be thinking. Or heart disease. Or a bullet straight through to the brain. Or maybe you are simply filled with regret for all the things you did not do. You should have done more crossword puzzles, taken more risks, signed up for that Great Books class, used up all your vacation days, removed the plastic slipcovers from the “good” furniture (“I’m turning into my mother!” you once said, accurately), worn those expensive heels in the back of your closet you were saving for that special occasion (which would be what?). You should have lived (but what did you do instead? You played it safe and stayed in your lane). Or maybe you should have chosen the Mediterranean Diet over the Atkins. Or learned a new language—French, German, bahasa Indonesia, something, anything—before the age of fifty, when your brain began its inevitable downhill slide. “Next year,” you kept saying to yourself. And now—Surprise!—next year is here. Now you will never take that trip to Paris or become a well-read person (instead of just a mere browser) or speak fluent or even passable French. Nous sommes désolés. Because the party, sadly, is over.