 | | Glide
Thirteen years old, a summer storm building flat
sky clouds. I could see them moving, track them
with a
finger, I decided barefoot on cold sand that I
had to swim across the lake. My mother protested.
She said there would be enough to do in life that
was hard
without making it up. Thirteen years old,
changing into my swim suit, she
took butter off a plate on the table,
told me about English Channel swimmers, that oil
next to
the skin would keep me warm. She buttered me;
said it would matter when I got to the middle, and
both bays were distant grey eyes. She said, you
don't need to do this. She said, use the sidestroke,
glide when you can.
LINDA WING
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