Morning Swim at the Y

At six a.m. the YMCA pool belongs to a small group of regulars. There's Ida, who is eighty-one and swims a slow, perfect breaststroke. There's a firefighter who does flip turns like a dolphin. And there's me, a recent convert who mostly floats with purpose.

Nobody talks before the swim. Afterwards, in the steamy hallway, everyone chats. We know each other's grandchildren and back problems and favorite donut shops. Ida brings oranges in a paper bag and hands them out like medals.

I started going because my doctor told me to move more. I keep going because of those ten minutes in the hallway, wet hair and chlorine and oranges, everyone a little sleepy and glad to be alive.

When I miss a morning, someone texts me "Lane 3 misses your splashing." It's the nicest text I get all week.