The Lifeguard
From my perch atop the tall chair, the pool glimmers like a sheet of glass under the midday sun. It’s deceptively calm now, but I know better. The water’s a living thing—unpredictable, restless. Kids splash in the shallow end, their shrieks piercing the air, while teens cannonball off the diving board, sending waves rippling outward. I scan the surface, eyes darting between bobbing heads and flailing arms. Last week, I pulled a little girl from the deep end—her panicked gasps still echo in my head. The pool’s a beast I tame daily, its chlorine tang sharp in my nose. I blow my whistle when a boy runs too close to the edge, his wet feet slapping the concrete. “Walk!” I bark, and he slows, grinning sheepishly. The pool doesn’t care about apologies—it’ll swallow you if you give it the chance. My shift’s almost over, but I won’t relax until I’m off this stand, away from its pull.
The Child
The pool is magic! It’s so big and blue, like the ocean in my picture books, but better because I can touch it. I wiggle my toes in the shallow part, and the water tickles me, cool and swirly. My floaties squeeze my arms, but they make me brave. I splash and laugh, chasing the waves my brother makes when he jumps in. The deep end looks scary, dark and quiet, like a monster’s hiding there. But I don’t care—I’ve got my yellow duck ring, and it bobs with me. The lifeguard’s whistle makes me jump, and I look up at her, all serious with her red hat. She’s like a superhero, watching us. I paddle to the edge and grab the side, peeking at the sparkly water. It’s my friend today, shiny and fun. I want to stay forever, even if my fingers are all wrinkly now.
The Old Man
I sit on the bench, cane resting beside me, watching the pool from a distance. It’s alive with noise—children’s laughter, the slap of feet, the splash of dives. The water catches the light, a bright mirror of my past. Fifty years ago, I swam here, strong and sure, cutting through the lanes like a fish. Now, my joints ache just looking at it. The pool hasn’t changed much—same chipped tiles, same faded lines—but I have. I see a boy do a clumsy flip off the board, and I smile, remembering my own stunts. The lifeguard’s sharp whistle cuts through, and I nod to myself—she’s got it under control. The chlorine smell drifts over, faint but familiar, tugging at memories of summer days long gone. The pool’s still here, eternal, while I’m just a visitor now, watching time ripple across its surface.
Clouds appear and a chill cools the air. Time for the child and the old man to leave. It’s been fun. Perhaps it’ll be nice and sunny tomorrow and they’ll visit again. Perhaps not.
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