taking lessons this week.
I have always felt at home in the water,
swimming came easy
like the smiles and hugs
between me and my father
who taught me to swim
but little about being a dad.
My relationship with him
gnarled, tangled as the wrist-thick roots
of the big oak tree
behind the basketball goal
with the home-made backboard and pole
(grandpa was frugal, you know).
Where dad and I played one-on-one
in the long summer afternoons
when I didn’t feel like a kid missing a parent,
instead—my father’s son.
He missed most of my swim meets;
I was so damn proud of my breaststroke,
tiny blue ribbons and medals
now tucked away, forgotten
in some box—magic gone—
returned to scraps of fabric and metal.
I watch my kids learn to swim.
When they look for me, I’m here,
breaking cycles, beaming:
I don’t tread the same water
as my forefathers.