Another summer day, another heat warning in the city.
We’re the oldest family here in this municipal wading pool: the twins at 13 and my nephew at 12. I’m soaking my feet and trying to keep the crew motivated, which largely entails redirecting my youngest son when he starts scooping up plastic boatloads of water and proudly dumping it out on the concrete deck. Deeper swimming areas are off-limits for him, thanks to the malacias that deformed his respiratory system in-utero.
Hey bud! Water stays in the pool!
He complies, even if it’s only for a minute or two.
My daughter chimes in. Blink-182 are playing Syracuse!
The gulf between their interests is wider than the sea itself, most times.
Finally, I catch them playing together.
Next summer, my grandchild – highly probably a boy – will come and splash here with his aunt and uncle. I wonder when it will no longer feel strange to think of myself as someone’s grandmother. A periodic table of elemental wisdom.
And so it goes.