was the apex of my happiness, that summer. It was also the end of it.
In August, we buried Mason.
And then Meg was gone.
Each day of that week seemed to stretch longer than the last. By this point, the sun was already up when I went to morning practice and still up when I went to evening practice, which disrupted and confused my general adaptive pessimism. On the other hand, summer solstice was only a month away. It never seemed right to me that, just as the summer began, the days were already getting shorter. This was my favorite time, right now — when the days were still getting longer and all the good stuff still lay ahead.
Willow Grove High’s graduation ceremony was Saturday morning, held outdoors at the downtown music pavilion. I went by myself with one of Dara’s extra tickets, and if I’d known how sad it was going to make me, I might have skipped it. Not so much because Dara was graduating, since frankly I sometimes felt like I’d never be rid of her, but because it meant the fracture of the closest thing I had to a brotherhood since Mason died. It hit me hard, watching some of my teammates march across that stage and out of my life. I’d never swum in high school without those guys; thanks to Dara, I made varsity my freshman year. They’d helped me improve, had supported me when I’d done badly and cheered for me when I’d done well. D’Amico especially. My freshman year, he was like a god to me, and when Coach put me on the “A” relay team with him this past season, I was giddy. I should have been happy for him to be graduating and moving on to the next big thing, but, honestly, I just felt sorry for myself that he was leaving.
And then there was Dara, the most talented one of us all, swimming on the “B” relay team, in early heats, battling it out with — and often losing to — girls who may have had two arms but didn’t have one-tenth her strength and skill. If I’d been her, I would’ve wanted to get as far away from swimming as possible. But she clung to it as if it were all there was in the world. And maybe for her, it was.
And the thing was, she was still good — not the best, but better than many, even if she was technically handicapped. She had adapted and compensated. Her dolphin kick in particular was unrivaled. Whereas most high school swimmers broke out of their underwaters long before the regulation limit, Dara powered through hers until the last possible second, using her advantage for all it was worth, cutting it so close to the fifteen-meter mark that I always feared she’d be DQ’d. But she never was. She was flawless. In most races she led the pack in those first fifteen meters, only to be overtaken when she came up and started her one-armed stroking. And even though I knew it was coming, it made my throat ache, every single time. After she finished her race, she’d stand on deck, watching the final heats intently, and I knew what she must be thinking: With two arms, she would own all those girls.
I looked for her to congratulate her afterward, but I couldn’t find her. A quick check of my phone showed a text from her ten minutes before:
I’m out of here. See you later.
I figured I’d at least congratulate D’Amico, who stood outside the pavilion surrounded by family, judging by the pack of similarly tall, towheaded, blue-eyed people with him. He spotted me and stepped away, holding up a
be right back
finger to them.
“Hey,” he said, coming over and giving me a hug.
“Hey, congratulations,” I started to say, but to my horror, my voice broke. Still hugging him, trying to steady my voice, I said, “Good luck at Kenyon, man. You’ll be great.” Jesus.
Pull it together, Mueller.
If I had realized I was going to bawl, I would have texted him my good wishes instead.
“You better come see me,” he said, stepping back and smiling at me. He pretended not to notice my emotional state. “You can stay in my dorm.”
I nodded, not trusting my
In August, we buried Mason.
And then Meg was gone.
Each day of that week seemed to stretch longer than the last. By this point, the sun was already up when I went to morning practice and still up when I went to evening practice, which disrupted and confused my general adaptive pessimism. On the other hand, summer solstice was only a month away. It never seemed right to me that, just as the summer began, the days were already getting shorter. This was my favorite time, right now — when the days were still getting longer and all the good stuff still lay ahead.
Willow Grove High’s graduation ceremony was Saturday morning, held outdoors at the downtown music pavilion. I went by myself with one of Dara’s extra tickets, and if I’d known how sad it was going to make me, I might have skipped it. Not so much because Dara was graduating, since frankly I sometimes felt like I’d never be rid of her, but because it meant the fracture of the closest thing I had to a brotherhood since Mason died. It hit me hard, watching some of my teammates march across that stage and out of my life. I’d never swum in high school without those guys; thanks to Dara, I made varsity my freshman year. They’d helped me improve, had supported me when I’d done badly and cheered for me when I’d done well. D’Amico especially. My freshman year, he was like a god to me, and when Coach put me on the “A” relay team with him this past season, I was giddy. I should have been happy for him to be graduating and moving on to the next big thing, but, honestly, I just felt sorry for myself that he was leaving.
And then there was Dara, the most talented one of us all, swimming on the “B” relay team, in early heats, battling it out with — and often losing to — girls who may have had two arms but didn’t have one-tenth her strength and skill. If I’d been her, I would’ve wanted to get as far away from swimming as possible. But she clung to it as if it were all there was in the world. And maybe for her, it was.
And the thing was, she was still good — not the best, but better than many, even if she was technically handicapped. She had adapted and compensated. Her dolphin kick in particular was unrivaled. Whereas most high school swimmers broke out of their underwaters long before the regulation limit, Dara powered through hers until the last possible second, using her advantage for all it was worth, cutting it so close to the fifteen-meter mark that I always feared she’d be DQ’d. But she never was. She was flawless. In most races she led the pack in those first fifteen meters, only to be overtaken when she came up and started her one-armed stroking. And even though I knew it was coming, it made my throat ache, every single time. After she finished her race, she’d stand on deck, watching the final heats intently, and I knew what she must be thinking: With two arms, she would own all those girls.
I looked for her to congratulate her afterward, but I couldn’t find her. A quick check of my phone showed a text from her ten minutes before:
I’m out of here. See you later.
I figured I’d at least congratulate D’Amico, who stood outside the pavilion surrounded by family, judging by the pack of similarly tall, towheaded, blue-eyed people with him. He spotted me and stepped away, holding up a
be right back
finger to them.
“Hey,” he said, coming over and giving me a hug.
“Hey, congratulations,” I started to say, but to my horror, my voice broke. Still hugging him, trying to steady my voice, I said, “Good luck at Kenyon, man. You’ll be great.” Jesus.
Pull it together, Mueller.
If I had realized I was going to bawl, I would have texted him my good wishes instead.
“You better come see me,” he said, stepping back and smiling at me. He pretended not to notice my emotional state. “You can stay in my dorm.”
I nodded, not trusting my
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