My quiet was torn from me when Uncle Brad pushed my legs over my head. My legs splattered into the sloshy mud and sprayed him with brown, gooey mud. Laughing, he picked me up, jostling as he fought the surf. I smelled alcohol and tobacco on his skin. At just the right time, he threw me into the crest of a minor wave.
The water drowned out the boisterous laughter of my family.
* * * * *
As I struggled to finish the last lap, I moved my arms towards me with my strength as I torpedoed through the water.
I could see the wall at the end.
Swim. Swim. Swim. Just a few more strokes, I thought. Swim. I put my right arm in front of me and stretched it out. My middle finger finally touched the wall and bounced off the bottom of the pool, gasping for breath almost before my face broke into the air.
I swam five lengths—underwater the whole time.
* * * * *
I sunk down low into the water, crashing into silence. Before floating to the top, I began my stroke. Freestyle. Your arms aren’t like a windmill because they are bent ever-so-slightly and your hands are cupped for better water-movement. I blew all my air out into the water with a slight scream and rolled my head onto my left ear to take a breath.
Stroke. Scream the air out.
Breathe.
Stroke. Scream the air out.
Breathe. Brandon’s splashing into my mouth was my cue to shove my legs to the bottom of the water and stand up. The shallow end was “Brandon’s Area.” He did shorter laps while Alex got a real work out.
My face must have shown the little eight-year-old boy how frustrated I was. He immediately began to swim faster.
I walked to where he was and put my hand under his belly. His cue.
He rolled over and put his dark, prunish right hand on my right forearm and in his raspy, young voice said, “Kekky….” Brandon was not quite questioning, but the tremor in his voice showed he wasn’t sure what to say or do.
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