Devonne Brown

Forgetful of the slick surfaces and the standing water, the hacky sack tournament resumed. Everything sagged. The kaleidoscope of red, blue, orange, and pink flowers, towels, and umbrellas drooped and dripped fresh from the storm that whipped up from nowhere and disappeared in an instant. There would be waterfalls when they opened or closed, but it had to be done. The chairs were soggy. The concrete sparkled. Water dripped from the potted red geraniums.

The sun came out hot. From under the shelters, concession stands, and bathrooms, the chairs filled again with sunbathers and sound. Women, from thirty to eighty-five, an occasional man, filled the chaise lounges. Teenagers spread towels and blankets on wet concrete. Children were everywhere. 

A whistle blew, splash! Chaos. 

Swimmers dove to stroke and breathe the humidity of pool air, before they dunked their heads sideways to somehow breathe then swim underwater. A game of shark was underway. The shark pulled an unsuspecting swimmer by the foot, pulling them underwater. Usually they don’t drown, and become sharks. The lifeguards hate that game.

Summer, sun, water, fun, the pool was the time to remember and prolong youth. Mostly naked men, women, and children, recumbent on chairs, in the water, on the edge of the pool; it wasn’t always a pretty sight. There were those blinding white billowing men and women wearing just enough clothing to make us want to watch someone drown, or at least scratch our own eyes out. 

But it was summer, the season of forgiveness. Outward appearances were ignored and forgotten, added to the kaleidoscope of summer. The beauty we remember, the endless games of shark and hacky sack, the days of catching rays, and sweat, the days we can breathe.