The kids have a pool.
It's not a big pool, nor a deep one, but it's perfect for my two jump-arounds, whose idea of a good 'swimming' is to jump in, kick frantically, then jump out and go tearing around the yard, coming back panting to splash! in again.
I've been dumping and re-filling the pool almost every night to get rid of the dirt and grass stems that cling to their busy little feet.
Today was no different. They went off to bed, snuggled in jammies, smelling of mango shampoo and toothpaste, and I went out to clean the pool and re-fill it for tomorrow.
And then I got immersed in email and only remembered the hose was on when there was a dull sloshing sound coming in through the window.
I went running for my shoes, turned off the hose and stared down at the (full-to-the-brim) sagging pool, one side listing to let out a good stream of water.
There was something in the warm night air, something soft and familiar, something about the crickets and the night sounds and the way the evening trembled on the edge of becoming night. Something tugging at the edges of my memory.
And as I pushed on the side of the pool and let the cold water from our well flow over my wrists I was reminded of night swimming in the bay, of nights where the end of day didn't mean the end of having fun, of swimming in clear fresh water that ssshusshed on the shore. Of times spent playing in the falling dusk- feet up, floating in the shallows, breathing in the sultry summer air
The moon is low tonight.