The waxing gibbous moon reflects off the water, riding ripples out from our movement. The cool air contrasts sharply with the warmth of the water carressing my body. It seems so strange to be here: mother and daughter floating on foam noodles in the pool with the darkness set in about us. I've turned on the lights and pump and the waterfall is singing and whispering beside us as we talk about everything and nothing. We have so little in common. We hold so much in union. There is so much I wish we could say, so much I wish she wouldn't.
Stars twinkling in the expanse above us have replaced the flesh and ceruleum sky from a short while ago. A pair of bats swoop overhead to begin their evening consumption of mosquitos; they see us and flutter away as we laugh and talk. The fireflies, busy among the trees on the hill above us, provide a moment of conversation. Then somehow we're back on that subject again. My mind is saying "Stop!" My mouth is saying nothing and I close the ears of my mind.
I loose one of my noodles and it sails into the air. The other follows. We laugh and begin discussing the construction of the wisteria covered trellis over my lower pond. The wind is picking up and my nose and forhead are cold. I mention leaving the pool, but make no effort. She returns the favor.
I still my movements so as not to disturb the envelope of warmth about me. Her mind returns to the old paths and my heart wishes she could savor the moment without those words and thoughts. Saddened I start for the ladder and she comes in behind me abandoning her floatation to climb out of the water into the frosty air. We rush, giggling like children, toward the house. I wish it had been as sweet as it sounds. I think, why can't I just ask her to stop or tell her how her words undo our time together.
She tells me how much fun she's had and I know the reason why. Someday I'll be the mother in a similar scenario. I pray for grace for us both.
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