Tangled up in Blue

   I've been swimming this year.  It started because I accepted an invitation to the pool from my Lithuanian friend and I've always liked swimming.  So I went.  I had no idea I would keep going, or what I would find in the water.  (I'm more likely to search for meaning in books or music.  I certainly wasn't looking for anything in a swimming pool.)
   I found Rita.  My grandmother, who died my senior year of high school.
  Death was no stranger to me and hers wasn't entirely a surprise.  She lost a short battle with a cruel disease.  But leukemia didn't just take Rita from me.  It took my heart.
   She was the most wonderful, wicked woman I have ever met.  Strength incarnate.  She lived to eighty seven and every year she cut her own Christmas tree, hauled it into the house and decorated it.  She always got the most pathetic looking tree.  That just made it better, somehow.
   And every summer she swam.
   Rita's pool was above ground and four feet deep.  It was secluded in her forest-y backyard completely surrounded by trees, which guaranteed it remain ice cold into August.  While we gasped and shivered, squealing and giggling as we dipped in our toes, Rita was in the water every day.
   Tonight the water is particularly cold, and I am taken back to those summers.  It takes my breath away, literally.  I make my way to the last empty lane, each step accompanied by a sharp intake of air, frequently emitting short squeals to express my discomfort.
   I submerge myself entirely under water and start the breast stroke.  Strong arms and legs and cupping the water, technique she stressed as I floundered in her cold little pool summer after summer after summer.  Careful, deliberate strokes.
   I frequently find myself under water smiling.
   It's so rare to think of her and smile.  Focusing on her for any significant period of time unfailingly results in tears.
   I reach through the clear, icy laps, while my head glues patches to the bottom of her pool lining.  There were so many holes.  It would have been more practical to buy a new liner.  She told everyone for months afterward how my hair shone in the sunlight, streaming out behind me as I struggled on the bottom of the pool.  I felt a twinge of pride every time I overheard her tell the story, and touched at the affection in her voice. It was rare to hear such softness from a woman so fierce.
   And I am twirling in her kitchen with its Fred Flinstone floors, showing her my dress, like I did every Sunday.  I'm enveloped in her strong, thin arms as she reaches around to spank me.
   That's Rita; no display of affection would be acceptable without just a hint of sass.
   Memories linger as I dry my hair in the locker room and I find myself stifling tears.  I force them away and focus on something else.
   But the closeness to her stays.  And tomorrow night, I'll be under water smiling at her again.
   Sometimes we find healing in the most unexpected places.