As children, we made games of the gallons: underwater worlds inhabited by two.
As teenagers, we tanned, splashed. Dared to jump from the highest rock.
As honeymooners, we waited for darkness, stripped, leapt: entangled in the current, each other’s limbs.
As parents, we walked her patiently. Small steps, spying for fishies. Tiny hand touching water. Cold. You get used to it, we promised.
Grown now, she lives by the river. Walks us, patiently. Good for our joints, our lungs.
At night, we sneak away. Laughing like children, kissing like teens.
Submerged: even old limbs remember their way to underwater worlds.
Sam Baldassari Jones received her MFA from Brooklyn College in 2018. Her stories have been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine, 100-Word Story, NYC Midnight, and elsewhere. She lives in Philadelphia and teaches high school English.