Slow Lane 

I return to the pool, and it feels like home. The familiarity hits me like the water splashing from the fast lane, and I wonder how something can feel so much like belonging when my own body is strange to me. 

I swim my mother’s breast-stroke - so exactly like the way she taught me that I can’t separate the movement from her. My nose and mouth stay above water. My mother never learnt how to swim with her face submerged and so, no matter how hard she tried to teach me, neither did I. Our necks would ache from the awkward angle, but it was probably sensible - I struggled, I struggle, enough to breathe on dry land. 

We swam at a pace conducive to talking, one I’m so used to that I slip into it now. I feel my mother pushing through the water next to me, hear her asking what I fancy for lunch after. When swimming was first a part of our routine, I pushed hard to match her pace. Now that pace is comfortable and I hold it close like the rubber wristband for my locker key, sitting tight and clammy against my wrist. 

I turn and kick off into my second length. I am always conscious of my body, feeling my legs ache after traipsing round shops, noticing energy sapping like sand in an hourglass. Even with this constant monitoring of my body, I struggle to interpret the sensation I am feeling as strength. I propel myself forward and feel the power of my body, everything working towards the movement. 

I push real life aside as I push through the water, relishing the way my body knows what it’s doing for once. I am lighter here. I do not ache, or tremble. Even when I have to stop to grasp at more energy, I feel in control. 

Squinting at the clock, I swim to the ladder. As I drag myself to dry land I feel my body the way it normally exists. Water drips down my body, along with the energy that I could not save for later. Everything stings. The rippling water makes sunlight dance on the walls, and I watch until my trembling legs tear me away. 

It becomes routine. I barely think about the fact that I’ll be swimming until I’m inhaling the sharp scent of chlorine. I use the same locker, stack my jacket and bag the same way, slide my glasses deep inside my shoe. My vision is blurred to the point of blindness, but there’s a sharpness to everything else.

Slow Lane 

Some weeks I almost forget the truth. I swim and my body feels like a part of me, rather than something I am battling against. Other weeks I am frozen in frustration. I stare at verdant mould on the tile grouting, thinking about everything that lives and grows while I am static. I return the next week, and hope for a better swim, a better relationship with my body. 

When my mother approaches on her mobility scooter, I remember the summer she taught me to ride a bike. She ran behind me, hand gripping the back of my seat, knowing the stabilisers didn’t provide the security she did. 

We slide into her hotel pool and I can tell the water takes some of the pressure off her. We both move more freely here. 

We talk in a way that feels more sacred than stationary conversation. There are some things you can only say when moving together, side by side. Our best conversations have occurred in oceans, leisure centres, lidos. 

I slow down to keep talking, tread water while she catches up. 

‘You go ahead,’ she says, and I hesitate before swimming on. 

I swim faster than our pace, while she swims slower. 

I am still with her, and she is still with me. 

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and submerge my face. I wish I could stay like this forever. I even think I could, but soon my lungs scream for air. I raise my head and I'm back in my local pool. My mother has never been here. 

I look behind me and see only water. I feel my mother with me, like always. I reach the wall, kick off, and propel myself to the other side, my arms cutting through the water like it’s what they were made for.