The dog and I swim through the soft turquoise depths, in languid loopy circles. He nudges his yellow ball, feet paddling beneath him. I hold my plastic Margarita goblet from a set of twelve you and I bought, imagining pool parties. It tips above the water in my unsteady grasp, though now there’s no one to care if it drops or spills.
Sometimes I hear the train whistle: the long line of cars pulls in, and then heads on to some place better. Sometimes I drink too much, my head full of angry conversations where this time I come out the winner. Tonight, I float on my back as another day expires and the world becomes dark. But if I keep looking up, I see that the stars are moving, ever so slowly.
You and I conjured our shared dream of paradise, planting lush hibiscus trees along the pebbly border. Now the blood-red blossoms unfurl, dropping gently into the water as all is lost. Tomorrow the movers will come to take away your boxes of things, your furniture.
But I will still have this swimming pool. Don’t you remember? Once, we bought this house for the pool.
christina holbrook 