I’d rush here after work three times a week. I’m hot and bothered from the walk, sticky as I change in the sweltering cubicles. Look up, air vents suspended like sinister clouds. Look down, bare feet, greyish tiles. All around, the familiar smell of chlorine in damp corners, the thick blanket of sound. Is my favourite locker free? The one that works? Children chatter as they line up for a lesson or push past me in wet towels. My swimming cap on, I rinse off and pad to the edge of the pool. Maybe it’s quiet today, the water like dark glass. Or it might be busy, full of bobbing heads and bright swimsuits, echoing shouts and the squeak of trainers.

In the chaos of the lanes, I turn my head down past the rough rope and breathe out. A lost hair grip, a wet plaster, the wrinkled toes of the feet in front. I swim hard and fast, counting and losing count, push, pull, push, turn. I stop when I’m exhausted and struggling for air. Before I get out, I linger beneath the surface of the water, enjoying the warm weightlessness for a few minutes more.

How many showers will be working today? Do I have time to dry my hair? I wash and dress to the upbeat thump of the Aqua-aerobics playlist. Rinse and repeat. I know the first three songs by heart now. I was getting fitter, getting leaner, feeling better with each swim. Rinse and repeat. Three times a week, until suddenly I couldn’t.

Since getting ill, I’ve managed the occasional dip, but always somewhere cooler, quieter, smaller, slower, somewhere unfamiliar and free of grief.

I’m not here today, but I’m glad that you are. Thank you.

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