"Stop backing up!" she crieswith a bit more fear than is called for.Her eyes, her set as she follows meis peculiar, like she knows something I don't, but won't tell me.

I back up.Back up across the concrete patiostill facing her, backpedaling,past the huge black cabinetwith the squeaking, sliding doorsfull of summer toys.

Away from Mom and the monster bamboo hedges behind her- a definite backyard boundary.3-year old feet, sound their retreatslow, shuffling, scuffling backwardsfrom a persistent, pursuing Mom.

Suddenly, blue, chillyslapping close,wet.

Brilliant flashes of yellow summer beamsand chlorine in my nose.Warm summer, and I am wet,covered rudely and totally by this person, Water.

Blurred, through the lens of the shallow end,I plead through wide saucer eyes for my Mom to rescue me,and to the rescue, rushing, wet to the waist, shoes, pants,hauling a now-knowing whir of a boyto the air, and wet, baking earth,a dry towel, and a lesson about swimming pools.