The Swimmers

by Julie Otsuka

“Up there,” she says, “I’m just another little old lady. But down here, at the pool, I’m myself.”

The pool is their sanctuary, their refuge, the one place on earth they can go to escape from their pain, for it is only down below, in the waters, that their symptoms begin to abate. The moment I see that painted black line I feel fine.

Try to make their lives easier, if you can. They are being paid the lowest possible wage to love you.

And with each memory shed you will feel lighter and lighter. Soon you will be totally empty, a void, and, for the first time in your life, you will be free. You will have attained that state of being aspired to by mindful meditators across the planet—you will be existing utterly and completely “in the now.”

the last complete sentence she ever utters is “It’s a good thing there’s birds.”

You have not heard the sound of her voice, now, in almost two years. Suddenly, she reaches out and grasps your arm. Her grip is strong but gentle. Her hand is unexpectedly warm. Your mother, you realize, is holding you. And for the first time in weeks you feel calm. Don’t stop. You stay like that, she with her hand on your arm, you on the sofa beside her, not moving, barely breathing, for several minutes, until it is time to wheel her into the Dining Room for lunch. The best five minutes of your life.

And when she gets to your face, she stares into your eyes with wonder. She does this loop again and again. Photograph, your name beneath it, your name on your name tag, your face above it. And every time, when she gets to your face, she looks as if she is about to speak.