Through the Rearview Mirror
They’ve begun tearing down the old pool at the local high school, its gutted interior exposed to the thick August air like a roadkill spectacle—both pitiful and, in a strange way, beautiful. The pool, like many things in life, was fated to end. After all, it was built in 1928—the same year that heralded the discovery of penicillin, the debut of Mickey Mouse, and the birth of Shirley Temple. By the time we were all using it, mothers were complaining about how chunks of the ceiling were falling into the water.
I don’t really miss the feel of chlorine on my skin or the relentless tug of a swim cap on my scalp. Nor do I miss walking into 4th-period French class with those unmistakable goggle marks around my eyes. But as I round the corner, my gaze catches on what little remains: a stand-alone wall incised with a narrow row of glass block windows.
Suddenly, I remember how the sunlight graces the room like a divine presence amidst the monotony of gym class. I remember the way we lather our legs with lotion while laughing over nothing. I remember the smell of Dove deodorant, usually ‘cucumber’ or ‘clean.’ I remember how we call each other pretty, especially on the days when we feel anything but.
And with that, I keep walking. I keep walking until I reach a new city where few people know my name or anything of the old high school pool—knowing well that the peculiarities of the nostalgic mind always tend to what I have left behind.