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my mother never learned to swim as a child.
growing up the eldest in a family of six
in nineteen-fifties iran never afforded her
the proper channels to be immersed in water.

emigrating to the states and starting a business,
managing a manic marriage and raising a young child
apparently is not overtly conducive to hours on a pool deck.

but that didn’t stop her from thinking it was easy.
family legend has it that when i was seven,
still skittish and tiresome by the pool’s edge,
she pushed me in, maybe nudged is more apt.
less aggressive. mixing up her cliches and metaphors
in the process. sink or swim. i don’t remember swimming
that day, but i don’t ever remember not swimming afterwards.  

forty years later we are at a pool together, the late afternoon sun
drenching the puddles with honey. she goggled. kickboard in hand.
her short white hair clinging to her face. out of breath and awestruck.  
she’s been kicking and stroking and just barely floating back and forth.
holding her breath. head submerged. gasping for breath when she stops.
innocent and childlike in her desire to be buoyant. never having
someone nudge her in, she pushes herself.

i was in the same pool today. same time of day. alone. she is no longer here.
i dove in. swam the length of the pool underwater. eyes closed.
floating at the surface. a rotund mammal playing in the water.
i thought of dolphins in the waves. seals. whales. i tumbled
and flipped and scraped the bottom of the pool, blowing
spouts of water into the air, the sun’s ray catching in the reflection.

she tells me about her pooltime in california every week
when we talk. she goes every week. gaining confidence.
“you just need to feel comfort in the water. be able to float. play.”

my mother never learned to swim as a child.
but i’ve watched her throughout my life jumping into lakes,
playing in waves, sitting in rivers and practicing in pools.
tonight i’ll dream of her, confident in the ocean, the way
she may have dreamed for me.