Oh, Christmas Tree

I’m getting ready to say goodbye, preparing to have regrets. One sentence in a five-minute discussion with a stranger and I already know the outcome.

            “My boss’ll pay to have that giant pine tree taken down.”

            Later that afternoon I walked through the front door, down the steps, and out into the street. I faced the house, tried to hold my hand so that I blocked the fifty foot evergreen on the right side of our home. Failed. I lifted my other hand and partially covered its twin on the left. I’m pretty sure if one goes, the other will follow.

            “The one on the right could be the presidential Christmas tree,” I murmur to no one. “And they could use the other one at the Rockefeller Center in New York City.”

            The men will assure me it’s the right thing to do.

            “Our roof,” my husband will surely say.

            “My rental,” the landlord will add.

            I’ll think a thought but not say it: The sky-touching trees make our house seem magical, like a castle. Do men these days still dream of castles?

            I return to the kitchen. Make a cappuccino and sip it at the table, channel Scarlett O’Hara.       

            “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll think tree thoughts.”

            Actually, can we please delay the tree talk for a few days? So I can celebrate a little while longer the fact that the nocturnal wraith that lived next door for five years, or was it four, is now gone? I picture the plum-hued smudges beneath her eyes. Recall how they looked like an Ash Wednesday priest missed her forehead, twice.

            I wonder if the lives of her dogs will improve—Doberman, Pit Bull, Doberman, sweet boys all. For the last few months I’ve only spied each of them out in the yard once a week, if that. I imagine their nearly diaphanous pet mom in her dingy camisole and rumpled gym shorts with rolled-down waistband, wearing striped rainboots. By now she must be knee-deep in dog doo. I pity the extreme-makeover-home-edition folks that will soon arrive, consider going next door with my Bath and Body Works three-wick “Winter” candle and some clothespins.

            I ponder what will become of Pet Mom. “I’m going to kill you!” Those words were hurled at her on our street last month. Made us all shudder. Someone called the cops but without probable cause all they could do was knock on the front and back doors. No one answered.

            Earlier this week, I’d peeked out from behind a drape. Watched the U-Haul move slowly down the street, her black sedan with New York plates creeping after. At first I grinned and clapped. Then I stopped myself. Exhaled and sagged. I stretched my hand out till my fingers pressed against the cold window.

            “I should’ve told you shalom,” I whispered. “It means hi, bye, peace be with you, covenant relationship with God.” I gripped my throat. “’cause I think you’re gonna need it, sweetheart, wherever you go.”

            I darted out onto the porch and down to the street, thought maybe . . . But the truck and car had already disappeared around the bend. I spoke anyway, to no one.

            “I really should’ve told you that in person. I’m sorry, that I didn’t.”

*The Best Part Is Jumping In*

They say it's gonna be a scorcher today.  Wanna go swimming?  I know the perfect place.  The water is so beautiful, it looks toxic.  Like a cocktail of Midori and Blue Curacao.  Sort of like if you mixed a blue raspberry and a lime Slush Puppy. 

            The water temperature's always just right.  Not so cold your heart stops when you get in, but not warm as a summer puddle either.

            The best part is jumping in, but first you have to climb the rocky, dry path.  Watch out for the pull tabs though.  They'll slice your foot right open.  Make you bleed like nuts.  Take turns watching where you're going and glancing down.  A tetanus shot might be a good idea too.  In case you get cut.  Or bit.

For starters, you gotta know the way.  Keep your eye out for a big ole farmhouse, white with dark green shutters, on the left. The property looks like a farm. Has a split rail fence around the front yard and a barn in the back. 

            My girlfriends and I always stopped to see the guys who hung out there.  They were wild.  Cute too.  In that I'm-bad-and-I-might-just-ask-you-to-be-bad kinda way.  They lived life more outdoors than in.  Up at the swimming hole.  Out in the woods.  Down on the river bank.
            They took us in the barn once and I saw one of the scariest things ever.  Saddest too.  They had a pit bull in there.  Back before it was cool.  Before Michael Vick got caught.  They couldn't let it out 'cause it was crazy vicious.  It'd kill anything with four legs. 
            It was the guys' fault.  They made the dog that way.  Taught it to hate all animals.  They'd take a rag and use it to pick up something dead.  Then they'd beat the tar out of the dog with it.  They started small and worked their way up.  Squirrels to possums to groundhogs.
            The dog got out once.  Took down a goat.  After that, they put one of those super mean collars on him with big spikes that dug into his neck if he made a wrong move.  Chained him inside the barn.  I never understood why the dog hated the animals the boys beat him with.  Why didn't the dog hate them?  Heck, why didn't we?

The wild boys were the ones who showed us the swimming hole.  We'd heard about it but we weren't sure where it was.  All we knew was to cross the bridge from West Virginia to Ohio and turn right.  After that, the gravel road up the mountain would be somewhere near a gas station. 
            We passed the Esso station and that's when we spotted the boys.  Sitting at a picnic table out in the yard, in the shade.  Suzy pulled her car into the driveway.  We sent Laura Jane over to ask for directions.  Boys'll tell her anything.             

            Laura ducked between the top and middle split rail and sashayed over to the boys in her white bikini and blue jean short shorts. 

            The biggest guy whistled.  "Well, well, well," he said. "What have we here?  I seen that same sorta swing on a back porch once."
            From the car, we watched Laura flash her Ultra-Brite smile.  The windows were down so we could hear her too. She flipped her almost black, bra strap-length hair and said, "You boys know where the secret swimming hole is?"
            "You mean the filled-up strip mine?" the youngest one said.  I thought he was good looking.  Kinda reminded me of John Denver, only smaller.
            The other boys seemed to tense up.  Their eyes got all squinty.  Like they were miffed.  Little John Denver ignored them.  He grinned up at Laura Jane, stretched out his arm, and pointed.
            "Go back the way you came but drive real slow," he said.  "In between here and the Esso,  you'll see a rusty oil drum.  When y'all get to it, keep your eyes peeled 'cause the turn's right beyond it."
            The biggest boy shoved Little John.  "Aw, man!  Why'd you do that?  We don't want no girls up there."

            "Says who?" Little John said.  He turned back to Laura.  "I can take y'all up, if you want."

Our new friend's name was actually Danny.
            "Why's it called the strip mine?" I said from the back seat.
            "'Cause that's what it used to be," Danny said.  "When there was no more coal, they flooded it."
            He turned to look at me.  "Wait 'til you see it.  The water's the coolest color ever."
            He led us up the steep, granola-looking trail.  Held back brambly branches so we wouldn't scratch our shaved that morning legs.  All of a sudden, the path ended.  We stood at the edge of a sandstone cliff, twenty or more feet over the opaque and aqua water.  The Mountain Dew in my stomach simmered.
            I peeked over the edge.  "How do you get down to the water?" 
            I can't believe I asked that.  I slapped my hands over my ears 'cause I didn't wanna know the answer. Heard him anyway.
           "You jump, silly."
            I pursed my lips and swallowed the jawbreaker-feeling lump in my throat. Danny took a step toward me.  I blinked.  Before I knew it, I was hurtling through the air.  Beside Danny.  I backstroked, over and over.  Trying to . . . I don't know.  Save myself?  Make it back to the cliff's edge?
            When I hit the water, my eyes and mouth slammed shut.  I felt my hair float over my head as I sank.  I opened my eyes and saw the light through the teal murk above me.  I pushed water down to get up.  To the light.  To the air.
            I broke through the water's surface like a baby being born.  Whipped my head around. Tried to locate Suzy and Laura Jane.  They waved from way up there.  My legs fluttered beneath me like beaters on a mixer.  I cupped my hand and circled it over and over, toward me.
            "Come on!  Jump in!  The water's awesome!"
            I spotted Danny.  He was floating on his back about ten feet away.  Eyes squeezed shut, mouth in a goofy grin.  I stretched out and did the same.  Pulled little puffs of air into my lungs so I could stay on top of the water.
            "I love this place, Danny," I said, even though I wasn't sure he could hear me. "It's perfect."
           

Killing Her Softly

I don’t want to get out of bed. I’m afraid to actually.  If I get up, I’ll have to look out the window.  Then I’ll know.  If my dog is alive or not. 

“If she’s dead in the morning,” husband had said, “I’ll put her in the Honda and take her to work.  So you all don’t have to . . . You know . . .”

The thing is, I never heard a car, mine or his, start and leave.  What if he’s down there right now?  Trying to get her sixty pounds out the back door without the other dog getting loose?  I know I should help.  Put my slippers and hoodie on and go downstairs.  Instead, I pull his pillow parallel to me and draw it against my hollow parts.

At 7:30 I wake again.  Get up, coward!  I throw back the flannel sheets and two ton down comforter.  Put my feet on the berber.  Shiver.  Stand.  Rearrange my jammie britches.  I realize I’m holding my breath when I get to the window.  Silver leaf SUV?  Gone.  I exhale and my lips flap.

Down two flights of stairs.  Pause outside the kitchen.  Please be alive.  And better.  Back legs healed.  In the name of Jesus.  I bend at the waist and peek.  The white dog is in a nose-tucked knot by the door.  Brown dog’s flopped on her side, the way I left her last night.  I smell, then see, the streak of pee on the floor back by her tail.

I approach and crouch.  “Hi, baby.  How’s my Painty Lou?” 

The power tail does not pound per usual.  Instead, a long quavery moan starts in her belly, works its way up.

My brow furrows.  “I know, sweetie.  I know.”

I get a  shallow condiment bowl off the dish drainer.  Run water in it.  Lap, lap, lap.  I hold her food dish in front of her nose.  She closes her eyes.

“But there’s grated cheese on it.  You sure you don’t . . .”

I sigh.  Get a rag and soak it with warm water.  I pull her away from her accident.  Wipe her back end and then the floor.  Daisy May, the white dog, does a jig near the door. 

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Paint.  “Let me put Daisy out.”

When I return, she’s by the door.  Dragged herself there using her front legs.

“You want out too?” I say.  “Do you have to do business?  Number two?”

I ponder how this will be accomplished.  I’ll carry her outside then support her by her rib cage while she--.  First things first.  I get a plastic table cloth and a towel.  Arrange them in the back yard, on the area with the most grass, least mud.  I slide out the gizmo that holds the screen door open.  Then I hoist the girl who weighs almost half of me.  Dear Jesus, please protect my back. 

It’s a difficult burden—half living and active, the rest almost-dead-weight.  Off the porch, into the grass, onto the makeshift bed.

“Baby, you can lay down now.  Relax.”

Instead, she’s caught in a sit pose.  Upright only because she landed that way.  She seems happy though, to be anything but flat and not likely to go anywhere soon.  I take a seat nearby and enjoy her accomplishment with her.  But then her front legs, stiff with determination, start to tremble.  Aftershocks from Japan maybe?  No, fatigue.  Her front paws slide across the vinyl.  She looks like an ill-fated swing set, anchored in quicksand instead of certainty.  I catch her around the chest, ease her to the ground.  Glance at my watch—7:51 a.m..  The vet’ll probably open at 8:00 or 8:30.

I consider going as is, soft blue jammies, black hoodie, red Crocs.  No, really should get dressed.  Put on a bra and undies at least. 

All of a sudden, my chest staggers with a fear breath.  The Dobie Brothers and Sergeant Oz, a Pit Bull, live next door!  What if they come out to pee and see her?  Smell compromised canine?  Surely they’ll come over the fence and have at her.  Especially Ricco.  Even though he squats to pee instead of hiking a leg, I know he’s vicious.  His ears, cut and docked into tiny triangles, make him look like a devil dog.  I’ve seen him hang onto his red, suspended-from-a-tree rubber donut for five minutes or more, thrashing, attempting to kill what is not alive.

I lift Painty Lou’s ear and whisper.  “Count to 60 and I’ll be back, girl.  I promise.”

As I drive down big Grand it occurs to me I haven’t cried yet.  Not  even when husband carried Paint into the kitchen last night, all mud and poo striped, almost black against his oxi-white IronMan running shirt.

I watched from inside the house.  “Why are you—“

“’Cause she can’t move her back end, that’s why.  Now open the dang door!”

I spent the next three hours beside her.  After I gave her a sponge bath, I spooned water into her mouth.  Begged her to eat her cheesed kibble.  I covered her with a towel and a blanket because shivs and little electrical currents seemed to be holding races under her fur.  I read parts of Karen Russell’s Swamplandia! out loud.

“A red baby alligator.  Isn’t that interesting, Painty Lou?  I think it needs a name, don’t you?  I’d call it Ruby Slipper Bigtree if I were Ava.”

At 10 I made my way upstairs.  Husband was watching basketball highlights.

“I left a light on—“

He looked up.  “I know.  I’ll check on her, before I come to bed.”

He grabbed my hand before I went 'round the corner and upstairs to our attic bedroom.  I turned and waited.  In the end, he didn’t speak.  What do you say when something very bad is close at hand and you know, ‘It’ll be okay,’ is a lie?

I dreamed of my favorite aunt—Aunt Lo.  Saw her faded copper beehive hairdo.  Heard her happy machine gun laugh—eh, eh, eh, eh, eh.  Saw her Revlon "Cherries in the Snow” lips turn up.  I knew why she’d come.  To tell me to do something.  The thing I didn’t do when—

“Be with her when she dies.  No one should go from here to there alone.”

I licked my lips and nodded.  “Yes, ma’am.  I will.  And . . . I’m sorry.  That I—“

“Hush now.  Go back to sleep.”

The tears begin their serious work on the second speedbump in the middle of the flat part of Grand Street.  I keep my left hand on the steering wheel and bat around for the glove compartment latch with my right.  Click.  I pinch at the contents.  Score a Dairy Queen napkin.  Soak it with one nose blow.  I turn up the radio.  "Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering--"  

I hiss at the windshield.  “This road.  Rename it.  Call it

Suffering Street."

After I park at Pawprints, I glance in the rearview mirror.  My face looks like I’ve been bobbing for something in thinned out ketchup.  Hope maybe?  Pity all I got was desperation.  My eyes look and feel as if I swam all night in an over-chlorinated pool.

I run inside.  “My dog—L’il Paint—you all know her, she can’t move her back half.”

After a brief exam, the young vet comes back up to Painty Lou’s head.  She holds out her knuckles for Paint to sniff. 

“How old is she?”

“She’ll be 14 on April Fool’s Day.”

The woman focuses on the print of a sunflower field that hangs over my head. 

“There’s so many things this might be.  Cancer, a herniated disc, a blood clot.  I could recommend an MRI or back surgery.  But with her having no deep pain response, and with her age, I don’t think—“

I rub my nose with my palm and nod.  “So we should . . . you know . . .”  I mouth the rest.  “Put her to sleep?”

“This is so hard,” the young woman says.  “Telling someone to—“

I put my pointer finger to my lips.  “Shhhh.  Whisper.”

She fondles Paint’s ears. 

“Can I call my husband?  See what—“

“Oh, gosh!  Of course.  I’ll leave you alone.  You can call whoever.”

I hear him before I see him.  I put my fingers under the door and wiggle them.  I’m in here. See my hand?  Look down.

The minute she sees him, she tries to get up.  She gives him her paw again and again.  The one with the catheter that will deliver her . . .   Her strawberry Laffy Taffy tongue lolls out the side of her mouth.  Her glossy black rickrack gums swing up in a smile.  Husband’s eyes get a skim of water.

He puts his face next to hers.  Closes his eyes when her tongue gets close.

“Hi, girl.  Who’s my girl?  Who’s my girly goo?”

The door cracks open.  The jolly blonde vet tech that helped me get her out of the car peeks in. 

“Take all the time you need, hon.  Just open the door when you’re ready, okay?”

I nod.  When we’re ready.  When will we ever be ready?  Right before she disappears, I see it.  The sign in the plexi-glass pocket on the door.  MASS.  I squint.  What?  Do they think we’re having church in here?  Then I get it.  Not church MASS.  Mass cremation MASS.  A pet funeral pyre.  My insides compress like a tin foil ball.  Squeeze.  Crush.  Compact.  I close my eyes.  Try to not see the visions.  I look away from the metal shed with smoke coming out a little rusted chimney pipe.  I grimace at the plate of pancake-looking pets, piled high.  Open your eyes!  So you won’t see! 

My hands are over L’il Paint’s ears again.  It’s getting to be a habit.  I’d held them shut when the jolly tech and I had the aftercare talk.  Hum inside your head, Paint.  Sing ‘How much is that doggy in the window?’

I take my face off Painty Lou’s neck.  Look over at husband.

“Should I--  Should we . . . open the door now?”

He winces.  Shakes his head, shrugs, and nods.

No one comes for the longest time.  Someone burps in  the next room.  Excuses himself.  A girl collects lunch orders and money.  A machine buzzes.  Is it a nail grinder or a tooth polisher?  Or maybe a bone saw.  Please don’t come.  Ever.

I have a thought.  What if we build her a skate board contraption to get around on?  Put a ramp down the back porch steps.  Put puppy pads on her to collect pee.  Rig her with a poo pouch, like the carriage tour horses have in Charleston, South Carolina?  That could work, couldn’t it?  And at night . . .  No.  No.  That’s no good.  It’s not right.  It’s only me patching together another week, one more month.  Trying to keep her alive.  For me.  I’d just be postponing this . . . this . . . 

The tiny, gentle vet comes back in the room.   Cups the weapon of MASS destruction in her small hand. 

“You’re fine.  Don’t get up.  I’ll just squeeze in here.  Keep loving her.”

She sits on the floor between us.  “Oh, yes, girl.  That is your paw. It’s a very pretty paw.”

My head feels like it might explode.  From sinus pressure. Grief.  Guilt.

I cover Paint’s ears and speak to my lap.  “It seems so wrong,” I say.  “To do this, when her top half’s just fine.”

The vet purses her lips and nods.  She pushes the plunger on the hypodermic needle a tiny bit.  Squirt.

I rub L’il Paint’s ears like a rosary.  Not that I’ve ever had one, but hey, this is MASS, right?  I put my forehead against hers.  Stop shaking, dang it!  Don’t let her see, or know, what’s about to—

The girl vet puts the needle into its starting gate.  I sing into Paint’s ear.

“Go to sleep.  Go to sleep.  Go to sleep, Little Paint.” 

My voice sounds broken.  It chugs.  Stops.  Starts.  She lays her head between her paws.  I speak but it seems like the words come from the ceiling instead of me.

“It’s so weird, doing this on purpose.”  I wonder if everyone wants me to shut up.  It’s like I have Tourrette’s.  Or diarrhea of the mouth.  Logorrhea. That was one of my word-of-the-day words once.

I scratch at a piece of dried mud on her neck.  The grit falls to the gurney.  Paint’s eyes are half closed now.  My teeth clench and I pull a long inhale through my nose.  Let it out.  I put my mouth next to her ear again. 

“I love you.  I love you.  I’m so sorry.”

Husband strokes the ridge of stand-up fur on her snout.  Closes her left eye, then the right.

I whimper.  “Is she gone?”

The vet fiddles with her stethoscope.  Inserts the ear buds.  Listens to Painty Lou’s side.

“The heartbeat is very faint now.”

I put my ear on Paint too.  To see if I can hear the last of her—

The girl straightens up, pulls off the stethoscope.  “And, she’s, gone.”

I moan and turn away.  The vet gets up.  Rests her hand on my shoulder blade.  Moves around me.

“Take all the time you need.  When you’re ready, I’ll show you the back door.”

Husband takes Paint’s collar off.  Rubs at the bone-shaped name tag.  Holds his hand out to help me up.  I massage the fur ruff around L’il Paint’s neck one last time.  Lift my hands to my face, to sniff, then kiss them.  We walk past the MASS sign.  I stop  and look back at her.  Her, and yet, not her.  Not any more.  I roll my fingers.

"Sleep tight, baby.  Don't let the bedbugs bite."

We step out into the parking lot.  Husband makes a noise deep in his throat. 

“Well, that about sucked.”

“Big time,” I say.  I blot my face with my eighth soggy tissue.  “Know what?”

He keeps walking.  “What?”

“That wasn’t really us putting her to sleep.  It was us killing her softly.”

The Best Part Is Jumping In

They say it's gonna be a scorcher today.    Wanna go swimmin'?  I know the perfect place.  The water is so beautiful, it looks toxic.  Like a cocktail of Midori and Blue Curacao.  Sort of like if you mixed a blue raspberry and a lime Slush Puppy.  And the water temperature's just right.  Not so cold that your heart stops when you jump in, but not so hot that it's not refreshing.

The best part is jumping in but first, you have to climb the rocky, dry path that looks like peanut butter fudge.  Be careful though.  Watch out for the pull tabs.  They'll slice your foot right open.  Make you bleed like a stuck pig.  Just take turns--lookin' where you're goin' and lookin' down.  A tetanus shot might be a good idea too.  In case you get cut.  Or bit.


See, there's this place at the bottom of the hill, before you take the secret turn up to the swimmin' hole.  The property looks like a farm 'cause there's a split rail fence and a barn.  My girlfriends and I always stop to see the guys who live there.  They're wild.  Cute too.  In that I'm-bad-and-I-might-just-ask-you-to-be-bad kinda way.  They live life more outdoors than in.  Up at the swimming hole.  Camping out in the woods.  Hunting. 

They took us in that barn once and I saw one of the scariest things ever.  Saddest too.  They had a pit bull in there.  Back before it was cool.  Before Michael Vick got caught.  They couldn't let it out 'cause it was crazy vicious.  It'd kill anything with four legs. 

It was the guys' fault.  They made the dog that way.  Made it hate all animals.  They'd take a rag and use it to pick up something dead.  Then they'd beat the tar outta the dog with it.  They started small and worked their way up.  Squirrels to possums to groundhogs.

The dog got out once.  Killed a goat.  After that, they had to chain the dog inside the barn.  They put one of those super mean collars on him with big spikes that dug into his neck if he made a wrong move. 

I never did understand why the dog hated the animals the boys beat him with.  Why didn't the dog hate them?  Heck, why didn't we?


The wild boys were the ones who showed us the swimming hole.  We'd heard about it but didn't know where exactly it was.  All we knew is you cross the bridge from West Virginia to Ohio.  After that, you go right and the turn up the mountain was somewhere near an Esso station. 

We passed the Esso station and that's when we saw the boys.  Sittin' at a picnic table out in their yard, in the shade.  Suzy pulled her car into their driveway.  We sent Laura Jane out to ask for directions.  Boys'll tell her anything.  She was in a white bikini and blue jean short shorts.  The car windows were down so Suze and I could hear everything.

Laura Jane ducked between the top and middle split rail and then sashayed over to the boys.  The biggest one said, "Well, well, well.  What have we here?  I seen that same sorta swing on a back porch once."

From the car, we could see Laura flash her Ultra-Brite smile.  She flipped her almost black, bra strap-length hair and said, "You boys know where the secret swimming hole is?"

"You mean the filled-up strip mine?" the youngest one said.  I thought he was good lookin.'  Kinda reminded me of John Denver, only smaller.

It seemed to me like the rest of the boys got tense.  Their eyes were all squinty.  Like they were miffed.  Little John Denver ignored them.  He smiled up at Laura Jane, then stretched out his arm and pointed towards the woods.

"See that rusty oil drum over yonder?  When y'all get to it, keep your eyes  peeled 'cause the turn's right beyond that."

The biggest boy shoved Little John.  "Ah man!  Why'd you do that?  We don't want no girls up there."

"Says who?" Little John said.  He turned back to Laura.  "I can take y'all up there, if you want."


John Denver's name was actually Danny.

"Why's it called the strip mine?" I said from the back seat.

"'Cause that's what it used to be,"  Danny said.  "When there was no more coal, they flooded it."

He turned back to look at me.  "Wait 'til you see it.  The water's the coolest color ever."

Danny led us up the peanut butter fudge path.  Held back brambly branches so we wouldn't scratch our shaved that morning legs. 

All of a sudden, the trail ended.  We stood at the edge of a sandstone cliff, twenty or more feet over the opaque and aqua water.  The Mountain Dew in my stomach simmered.

I peeked over the edge.  "How do you get down to the water?" 

I can't believe I asked that.  I slapped my hands over my ears 'cause I didn't wanna know the answer.

Danny snorted.  "You jump, silly."

I pursed my lips and swallowed the jawbreaker-feeling lump in my throat.

Danny took a step towards me.  I blinked.  And then, before I knew it, I was hurtling through the air.  Beside Danny.  I backstroked, over and over.  Trying to . . . I don't know . . . save myself?  Make it back to the cliff's edge?

Then I hit the water.  My eyes and mouth slammed shut.  I felt my hair float above me as I sank.  I opened my eyes and looked up and saw the light through the teal murk.  I pushed water down to get up.  To the light.  To the air.

I broke through the water's surface like a baby being born.  I whipped my head around, trying to locate Suzy and Laura Jane.  They waved from way up there.  My legs fluttered under me like beaters on a handmixer.  I cupped my hand and circled it over and over, towards me.

"Come on!  Jump in!  The water's awesome!"

I looked around for Danny.  He was floatin' on his back.  Grinnin' up at the blue, clean slate of a sky.  I stretched out and did the same.  Filled my lungs with little puffs of air so I could stay on top of the water.

This place is so great!  Everyone should know about it.  Well . . . maybe just the people I like a whole lot. 


So, wanna go swimmin'?  I know the perfect place.