At 71, I bought a senior pool pass, rolled onto my back, and finally faced the day nobody noticed I was drowning.

So there I was, sixty-two years later, gripping the metal rail of the warm-water pool like it might save my life.

And then I saw her.

Short silver hair. Strong shoulders. Navy swim cap.

Every morning from my window, I had noticed her gliding through the water before sunrise.

Then she would turn onto her back and float, still as a leaf, eyes toward the ceiling, as if peace itself had picked a body and chosen hers.

I wanted that.

Not the swim cap.

The peace.

She looked at me once and knew.

“First day?”