Still Eight

The smell hit me before I even opened the door.

Chlorine and childhood.

Eight years old and I'm standing on a tile deck,

my bathing suit too small,

my feet already flinching from the heat.

My nephew is here for his first lesson.

He's braver than I was.

The light refracts off the water,

breaks into a thousand pieces.

I watch the light and not the water

because the water is the same,

the smell is the same,

and I am not the same.

The pool echoes like a cathedral.

Every sound bounces back louder.

The instructor calls out instructions.

The children scream with something

between joy and fear.

That burn in the back of my throat—

I remember it exactly.

The way my eyes watered.

The way I held my breath underwater

until my lungs felt like they were drowning

even though I was breathing water

and not air.

My nephew jumps in without hesitation.

I was never that brave.

I sit on the bleachers and smell the chlorine,

and I am eight years old,

standing on a deck,

waiting to be small forever.