When I finish with my laps, Dylan is back-floating in the deep end, away from the rest of our friends, right hand reaching upward like he might open a door in the cosmos. I swim to him. “Look at the sky from underwater,” Dylan says, and sinks. His fingers disappear last.
I lean back and submerge. The chlorine stings my eyes. Above me the stars disappear, the sky an inky infinity. In Russian, there are multiple verbs for swimming, but this isn’t any of them. Dylan and I are floating, worlds muted, blurred. Our hands cup the water, fingers almost brushing.
Beautiful use of language.
That’s lovely.
Poetry.
Nice to read, like a lasting memory.