It’s Friday night. Friday nights have a different rhythm, a
different atmosphere, depending on the time of year. This is summer, so Friday night means pasta
dinner at the pool pavilion, followed by pool set-up for tomorrow’s meet,
followed by TV time on the couch with the kids. An early bedtime tonight for an early warm-up
tomorrow morning; a pool filled with sleepy swimmers at 7:30 AM.
It’s very green here now.
We had six months of winter, a few weeks of chilly spring, barely warmed
by thin pale yellow sunlight, and now lush overripe warmth—things growing on
almost every surface, black mottling on the pavement that might be dirt or
might be mold. Nothing in the swampy
close-in suburbs of Washington D.C. will be really dry again until October.
Our neighborhood is filled with monster trees, 50 or more
years old, 30 or more feet tall. A
sheltering, cooling canopy that could end up crushing your house--thunderstorms here are Old Testament. We
belong to one of the mid-20th century swim and tennis clubs that are
hidden in neighborhoods throughout D.C., Maryland, and Virginia. I picture myself sometimes, old and alone,
clinging to dim memories of a distant and happy oasis: smiling neighbors,
striped deck chairs, blue water sparkling with sunlight, ceiling fans spinning
lazily in the redwood pavilion. When I’m
tired of my slightly down-at-the heels Levitt neighborhood, it’s the pool that
keeps me away from the real-estate listings.
Summer just started, really, and I’m already worried about
losing it. Fleeting isn’t the word. A blink and it’s over. How not to waste it,
how not to lose it, how not to worry about the regret I’ll feel at the end of
August, barely two months from now. We should have eaten more popsicles, should
have gone to the Air and Space museum, should have chased fireflies.
I live in
the moment. It's just the wrong moment.
The lane ropes are in place and the backstroke flags are
strung across the pool, where we hope they’ll stay (a thunderstorm threatens,
as usual.) The sun will be in my eyes tomorrow as I try to look serious in my
blue and white stroke-and-turn judge uniform.
The meet will be over, a blink, and I’ll know that there are only a few
left, even though the season is just starting. I miss it already.