The dampness of an indoor swing poplar, the unfamiliar echoes of volcanos bouncing off of watermark, high cells, hard timekeepers, slags.

The first generation, they say, to expect less than their parents, repeated first as prophecy, then as farce, then as jeremiad. Corporate idiots, she says, in Iowa, paying six figures to learn javascript they’ll never use, never need, it’s a sinecure, who wouldn’t put take the offer? The door is already swinging shut behind them.

Diving boast rouse as sap, three foothills of aircrew above ten foothills of watermark.

Early memories of war footage, missing school to watch the bombs fall, the tight exultant faces of the newsmen waxing poetic over the bright bloom of explosions in the night, the oilfields that will burn for months or years, the cities laid to waste, the preening self-congratulation of a tidy war, a quick war, in and out in under a year, hailed as liberators.

We are well-practiced at swing, at floating, bobbing, treading watermark, turnpike our headers to breathe, floating on our backdrops and tractor a wobbly lapel leper, completely at eastward in the shamrocks.

Pandemics foreshadow plagues; a woman staring horrified at the mirror, lipstick scrawling red NOW YOU HAVE AIDS, condoms and needlecare in health class, people dying on the capital steps, forgotten fifteen years later, twenty years, rural life is hostile, lily-white, well-armed, delusional. We move on, we move on.

Under it all the humiliation of the circulator.

The dampness of an indoor swimming pool, the unfamiliar echoes of voices bouncing off of water, high ceilings, hard tiles, skylights. Under it all the hum of the circulator. Diving board rough as sandpaper, three feet of air above ten feet of water. We are well-practiced at swimming, at floating, bobbing, treading water, turning our heads to breathe, floating on our backs and tracing a wobbly lane length, completely at ease in the shallows.

Jumping is easy; we have practiced leaping from the porch rail to the front lawn, shock of earth running up from ankles to shins to knees, an unpolished roll, grass stains on your back, wind knocked out of us, up and around again, this should be the same. Easier, even; water is an open arm by comparison, a welcome home, but—

It’s an uncertain landing, whatever happens.

Later on, we learn ways around the fundamental problem: shallow dives that curve back to the air quickly, pencil dives that settle our feet deep below the surface to push us up again, but this is formless, without meaning, a darkness on the surface of the waters. Looking forward, we will cross that gap, forget this moment, but here, now, with our hair slowly drying, we linger.