Poolside

 It’s hot. Painfully hot. So I sit on my porch, looking at the lawn meadow wishing there was a pool in the middle of it. I grew up with a pool. As soon as it was warm enough, I was ready to swim. Before all that, Dad had to use the little blue chemistry set thing to make sure it wasn’t full of bacteria and then Heather would vacuum it. Then it was ready to go. At one point there was a slide. Which is insane. Kids, a concrete pool deck and a plastic slide: that’s an eighty’s childhood right there. But when Danny wasn’t daring Heather to jump of the top of the slide, it was mostly long summer days of marco polo and categories and trays of sandwich stuff. 

But there was always just the slightest hint of danger having a pool in GA. Copperheads. Someone was always given the unenviable task of checking the gutters for the sneaky little suckers. Charlie loves to share the story of how one summer day, when we had a crew of kids over to swim, I jumped in before the snake check. I remember being underwater and seeing all of them jumping up and down on the side of the pool, looks of terror on their faces. I broke the surface and one of them dragged me out of the pool, just as a copperhead swam past my feet. It was the closest moment to Jaws I have ever, or ever hope, to have. 

But mostly I remember laying in my bed at night with a comforting feeling of being dry and warm after being wet from swimming all day, the pool light making magical blue reflections on my walls, and my mom coming in to open the windows and turn on the attic fan. 

I think when I die, that just may be my first moment in heaven. Drifting off to sleep with my mom, shining in that blue pool light, tucking me in for a summer sleep.