Holding On

There is something almost magical about jumping off of a springy diving board into a chlorine-filled swimming pool.

Just imagine: You're waiting in line, completely dry, feeling the cool gusts of wind blossoming in invisible swirls across your back, the hair on your arms raising, goosebumps prickling all over your skin. The person in front of you jumps in, splashing everyone, sending droplets of water throughout the air, shimmering as ever-changing rainbows reflecting the light of the consistent sun.

And then it's your turn. You step up the ladder, one rung at a time, aware of every breath you take. You walk to the edge of the board, looking down at the rippling water below. You bend your knees, waiting, waiting, and then- you extend your legs, flying up into the air! You soar up high into the clear, blue sky, and time seems to stop. Your hair rises above your head, flickering like a slow-blazing fire. Your heart beats faster.

Your eyes widen slightly with exhilaration and you stretch your arms wide, spreading your fingers as you extend your arms out, reaching to feel every inch of the air, holding the sky, and your toes point as you reach the peak of your jump. You feel free like a bird, flying gracefully through the air, soaring. Your shoulders stretch back and you feel proud and powerful, and you're on top of the world, and everyone can see you and you can see everyone, and you're higher up than anyone else...

Until you fall.

The air is sucked out of your lungs as you slowly lose height, giving in to the strong pull of gravity. You have just enough time to take a small breath, shutting your mouth and eyes tight, giving in to the darkness, and the tips of your toes touch the cool, creamy water, and suddenly your whole body is submerged. You sink to the bottom, bubbles floating up to the surface.

You see nothing but darkness as your feet touch the smooth bottom of the pool. You know you'll need air soon, so you again bend your legs and push off the bottom, cupping your hands above your head in a streamline, using strong strokes to pull your body upward, kicking hard until your head breaks the surface. Your eyes open wide, and you take a deep breath before swimming to the side of the pool, glancing back at the diving board, slightly smiling at the line of young children anticipating their turn to fly.

You jump over and over until it's time to go, and you walk over to a table, where your mother stands, waiting for you. You pick up a towel and drape it around your shoulders, drying yourself off. Once you're dry, you wrap your towel around your waist and slip into your sandals. You walk out the front gate, and your mom puts her arm around you, slightly squeezing your shoulder, then releasing as you approach your shiny blue car. You open the door, savoring the last bit of exposed sunlight before you sit down on the hot, sticky leather of  your car seat.

You drink in every moment that you spend at the pool, as if it were your last time. As if it were the last time you would be able to jump off the diving board. The last time you would feel the hot heartbeat of the sun shining down on your exposed shoulders. The last time you would sit on hot, sticky leather warmed by the sun. As if it were the last time you would ever go back to the swimming pool.

Let me tell you something.

My name is Sharon Abbot, and I never did go back.