At the Salvador Perez Pool    


This morning, my young son is learning to swim. "Swim!" The swimming instructor yells: "The sharks are coming!" Because the world is exactly what it is, because it's never off, even by a hair, my son does his best to get away from them. But when, after struggling to keep his head up, it is time to do the dead man's float and the instructor shouts: "Float!" it no longer makes sense to him. A dead man does not float. He's not able to push his chest up all the way to the sky—through which the sunlight steadily pours down its silver quiver into the water. Nor for that matter, is he able to extend his arms and legs windmill style and relax all at one and the same time. As my son flails for his life, the instructor shouts: "You fell apart!" "What happened?" "Don't quit!" "Float!"