Twelve Little Duckies

Twelve little duckies lined up. Bustling down to a local bus line, Trekking a distance that seems too far for me as an adult. We meticulously rolled our towels, and camp instructors (just teenagers themselves) would slather us until we glowed titanium white. Sometimes we still burned despite hats, and sunshirts, and our dorky little sunglasses.

Pool water lapped up at the filter when we arrived. We dipped our toes before we had permission to get in. The slide, which was monumental to me then, stood in as a towering monolith yet to be conquered. No running, the lifeguards whistled. We were too giddy to fully stop, and would break into a slinking and brisk walk instead.

We never dove in. It’s not allowed. Really not allowed. Cold water, then cool, then hot when the water roiled between us. We slapped each other with pool noodles. Did that thing where you blow water through the center. It wasn’t allowed, but it was OKAY. No one whistled. This was real sink or swim. By the end of summer our thighs would be strong. Fingers you think would be permanently pruned. I wonder if I could make this amount do swimming a fad diet.

Twelve smashed peanut butter and jellies. Lukewarm because the Sun beat down on them all day. We lied out on the burning pool deck. Only tolerable because of damp skin. Why did we roll those towels?

Twelve little exasperated sighs. We hoped our parents wouldn’t care if we came home or not. Summer ending is made up of 90 days ending. How many summers can you remember from your childhood? Sometimes I get to see mine lived out by my nephews. The same city. The same pool.