Memories of my daughter’s childhood surface occasionally. In her black and white polka dotted swim suit with its fuschia ruffle, orange water wings on her chubby arms, complaining that the neighbor’s dog had jumped into her wading pool as it was being filled with freezing water from the garden hose.
“Mom. Graham’s in my pool.”
My typically distracted mother’s reply was, “What’s Graham doing in your pool?”
This weekend, I replayed the scene in my head, and realized I’d embellished the memory. She wasn’t wearing water wings. Her pool held no more than a few inches of water, and she couldn’t drown.
I knew that then. I know that, now, too.