Poolside
Sunday, July 20th, 2008
From one water entry to the next (fitting for July.)
Late now in the afternoon, the children have abandoned the inflatible pool in the back yard for darkened bedrooms with stirred air. They sleep beneath the constant whip of ceiling fans that beat them down to dreams with cool breezes. Their father, who has had them to himself this weekend, has decided to slip into the lukewarm water that acts as a conductor for electric cold when the wind finally decides to blow.
The trees have almost become petrified – only a few random leaves wave. The air-conditioning units outside the backs of houses sing louder than the robins and the other birds who dare return every year for summer in Kansas. No neighbors are out to see this strange spectacle, a grown man laid completely flat in a pool meant for a few toddlers and with edges painted with tropical fish and dolphins with trails of splashes behind them.
This is my 33rd summer here and it has suddenly become as brutal as ever. Mild June and ealy July have given way to this, the hottest day of the year so far, and fevered, strange behaviors from grown adults. One leg beaded with pool water hangs over the shallow ledge, pointing toward the back privacy fence. The other is submerged except for a big toe and is pointing the opposite direction. Sweat beads on my forehead at the hair line and gradually slips down my temlples, over my eyebrows.
Dogs that usually patrol the neighborhood fencelines now lie quietly in the shade of dog houses and overhangs too overheated to chase squirrels or passing people, if there were any. Outdoors has become a monolithic still life painting with front doors that will never open and sidewalks and streets that stay bare. I am moving, shifting weight in the akward pool with gimmick sides, but too low to the ground to be part of the scene.
A bird in the nearby trees has begun a slow, sad whistle and abruptly stops. There is no one to return his call. Just me, some overhead powerlines and circuit breakers shapped like trash cans.
The yard is empty without the children in an esoteric way much deeper than the absence of their screams and laughter. Two chairs have been overturned by the clubhouse. Three empty swings barely sway in the most powerful winds the day can muster. I’ll wake them up soon, if they haven’t already wakened, and they can have their pool back from the strikingly tall, dark and hopefully handsome bowl of fruit that steps out of the painting.
