As a toddler you would pretend to hear nothing as I frantically chased and yelled after you racing toward the water. I knew the potential dangers of backyard ponds, grandparents' pools, even bathtubs--but you, my fearless tadpole, would wriggle free of arms and even watchful eyes. You belonged to the water and it to you.
We enrolled you in the emergency swim classes. You hated being thrashed around in the water this way--pushed and pulled under by your teacher. He tried to give you a healthy fear of the water but once the sessions were over, you simply kicked through the water with a grace that left others wide-eyed.
The tub, the pools, and then the ocean...I could barely keep you from the sea. It called to you over and over...over my voice warning "Joshua, stay here!" If I could just go back to that first moment, that first trip to the beach, and watch you dip your tiny toes into the sea foam, the delight you must have had.
But I don't remember.
I remember your glorious fiery hair and your brilliant blue eyes and your laughter and the smell of your skin. But I missed that moment among the laundry, the packing and unpacking, the doctors' appointments, bills, school, homework, discipline, fighting and the slow distance that grows between a growing boy and his mother.
So I watch you now. And I cheer for you. I see you in the water. And I will remember it all.
