My son and I are standing on a street corner
in Brooklyn, his arms wrap around my waist,
his face is buried in the belly part of my green sundress.
He is sobbing loudly. Everyone is looking at us.
He cannot make the hard, hard crying stop.
I can’t either. Between his hyperventilating gasps
he shouts: This is the worst day of my life!
It isn’t. But today, I don’t have the energy
to convince him otherwise, or the usual frustration
in my gut that moves me to lecture him
on how golden his life is compared to refugee children,
because I am also heartbroken and trying
to hold my own bones in place for a few more hours.
When he is able to manage words, he says
only bad things have happened today:
his friend didn’t meet him at the playground,
the strap on his favorite goggles broke,
and we wanted to go swimming, but the pool
was empty. At this moment, there is nothing sadder
than an empty pool. A giant concrete hole, a blue grave,
and the ungentle way it announces that summer is over.
The hollow echo that replaces cool water.
The cruelness of everyone. No one was loving enough,
just yesterday, to tell us, it was, in fact,
our last swim of the year. It feels impossible
to accept, without any warning, that our bodies
will no longer be able to do this thing
that our bodies so love to do.
I am no longer talking about swimming.
God. How we might have used our arms and legs
differently, if we had known,
it was our last time together.