martedì 17 settembre 2013

Swim Little Fish

Philip's mom sat on the cement bleachers with the other mothers. The humid heat was unbearable but she resisted. This was her favourite time of the week. It was when she felt like a normal mom.
The child, under his yellow fluorescent bathing cap with a prickly blow fish on the side, which he had chosen himself because he loved them so much, and matching goggles, swam effortlessly. Every now and then he would stop to wave. His smile lit up the space around him casting indefinite shadows on all the other children.
The moment she waved back, he would put his head under water and continue swimming. He was fast, faster than the other swimmers, and this comforted her.
It was his element in a way. From birth. A water birth. It was a new method then. Very experimental and they had interviewed her on TV.  A special mom. Never a normal one, not even then.
He stopped again and waved. The line of children behind him - he was always first because he was the fastest – had to come to a stop.
Some complained, splashing, others told them to quit complaining and waved too.
She always waved back.
His smile, there with all those nice children, made her heart melt and her eyes well up; she slipped on her dark glasses. She burst with pride: she couldn't believe he was the fastest child in the water. His element.
“Is that your son there?” asked a new mom.
She had never seen this woman before. Very beautiful. Transparent skin, thin body, designer jeans. She pulled her own baggy t-shirt over her huge breasts and bulging waistline.
The new mom had jingling bracelets of gold and pearls.
Philip, her son, would have loved to touch those bracelets. She hoped he would not see them from inside the pool and make a fuss.
The new mom frightened her. The other moms were friendly, and although they never talked to her directly, they smiled often, and said how cute Philip was. Fast, too, they said. They always added that.
She pulled her t-shirt over her damp skin; it was so hot in the pool area. She was notably embarrassed by the gold and pearls, the sleek body and perfect teeth.
“My goodness, he's like a little fish! That's my boy at the back of the line. He isn't much of a swimmer. Hates water, actually. Would prefer to drown, I think”.
She wanted the woman to stop talking, to leave her alone. Her son had stopped again, but this time, disappointed by his mother's lack of attention, he did not wave; arms up, he let himself sink slowly to the bottom of the pool. The air around her became perfectly still. Even the ripples in the water ceased.
A whistle, shrill, filled the air like a shriek. Philip came back up for air. He looked at the instructor's stern face, and cast down his eyes, pouting. When he lifted them, it was to search for his mother on the bleachers. He saw her worried expression and smiled, unknowing. He waved.
His mother waved too. Everything went back to normal.
Philip was at the head of the line swimming in front of all the other children.
The new mom sat quietly a moment.
“Children are such pests, aren't they? They know how to work us. But, hey, whatever. It's nothing compared to real problems” the beautiful woman pointed to a wheelchair at the side of the pool, “Now that is a real problem. Oh, I couldn't bear it. These things embarrass me in a way. I never know where to look. I mean, you don't want to stare or seem curious, but then you don't want to turn your head and have them think they gross you out or anything either...You have to wonder how a mother can get through the day with a weight like that on her shoulders”.
And so the clock struck four pm, the lesson was over, and the new mom got up to leave, gathering her elegant designer bag and her silk scarf – a scarf, notwithstanding the incredible heat!
Philip's mother waited on the cement steps. Philip was always the last one out of the pool. Her little fish.
When the other children had filed out, and the mothers had deserted the bleachers, the instructor dove into the pool, grasped little Philip and helped him out, placing him carefully in his wheelchair.

The spasms contorted his round little body, but he waved to his mom. His blissful smile lit up the space around him casting shadows on the water and walls. They were shaped somewhat like blow fish.

Matilde Colarossi

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