Six sentences (only slightly late) for Sunday, April 20th:
The air smells of bleach, one of her earliest memories. Under the vaulted skylights, the spectators’ seats. Here the chlorine permeates even into the carpet, the wooden benches sweet with damp. How many meets must her parents have watched from this vantage point, how many hours spent waiting to see her? Now, standing in their place in the dark, she imagines what it must have looked like to them: her body a small shape indistinguishable from all the other bodies, the water white foam around her. It could have been anyone they were cheering for.