I miss yesterday.

I miss little sticky hands and little bare feet that stepped on my toes

I miss big rough hands that held mine when we walked.

I miss hugs that said I’m sorry and loved me through the good and bad days.

I miss my mother who showed her love in a million ways but never spoke it

I miss my dad who would pick up where I left off in a book and then ask me how it all began. 

I miss the churches of my childhood but now I live in one, built of stone and plaster and tin ceilings

I miss my friends whose imperfections have long since faded in memory

I miss my young self who could work for hours without rest and who strived every day to become superwoman, never quite achieving it. 

I miss a clear young face that never dreamed of wrinkles

I miss the old world, the one I grew up in,

I miss the old folks of yesterday

I miss roaming through the mountains

I miss going to my grandma’s house and smiling in anticipation long before I got there

I miss the aunts and uncles and siblings and a house full of folks on a Sunday afternoon. 

I miss sitting around a gnat smoke and hearing tall tales told by old men with a chaw of tobacco. 

I miss the slamming of screen doors

I miss unpainted houses that smelled of good country cooking 

I miss yesterday.

Source: Journey of a Mountain Woman on Facebook, May she rest in peace.

And that may be the loneliest lesson of all.

 

The morning I drove myself to the ER instead of picking up my coworker, he called me selfish and said fake friends always disappear.

I stared at his text in the hospital parking lot with my hand shaking on the steering wheel.

Not, “Are you okay?”

Not, “Do you need anything?”

Just: “You seriously couldn’t tell me sooner? Rides are crazy expensive this early. Now I’m stuck.”

For eleven months, I had picked him up before dawn for our shift at the distribution warehouse.

Every morning.

I left my apartment twenty minutes early, pulled up outside his building, and sat there while he finished his coffee, tied his boots, or “just needed one more minute.”

That one minute was usually ten.

Some days traffic backed up on the interstate and I took side roads to get us there on time.

Some days gas prices climbed so high I stood at the pump doing math in my head before swiping my card.

I never asked him for a dollar.

I told myself it was what decent people do.

The truth is, after my wife died, those quiet drives to work became the only regular conversation I had with another human being.

He joked about sports.

He complained about bills.

He talked about his kids, his ex, his back pain, his boss, the price of eggs, the state of the world.

And I listened.

I thought that meant we were friends.

The night before all this happened, my chest started hurting while I was washing dishes.

Not sharp enough to send me into a panic, but wrong enough to scare me.

At my age, you don’t play games with pain like that.

I sent him a message before bed.

“Hey brother, can’t drive you tomorrow. I need to get to the hospital first thing in the morning. Having a health issue.”

That was the message.

Simple.

Clear.

Human.

His reply came back less than a minute later.

“Man, you should’ve told me earlier. How am I supposed to get there now?”

I read it twice because I honestly thought I had missed the second part.

The part where he asked if I was breathing okay.

The part where he asked if I needed someone to sit with me.

The part where he said, “Forget work. Take care of yourself.”

There was no second part.

Two hours later, while I was sitting in a paper gown waiting for tests, my phone buzzed again.

He had put up a post online.

“Funny how people show their true colors when you need them most.”

I felt something sink inside me that had nothing to do with my chest.

I thought about every cold morning I scraped ice off my windshield before sunrise.

Every time I circled the block because he wasn’t ready.

Every time I skipped breakfast so I could leave early enough to pick him up.

More than two hundred rides.

More than two hundred chances for him to say, “Thanks, man. I appreciate you.”

Now one single morning—one morning when I needed help myself—and suddenly I was the villain.

That was the moment it finally hit me.

I wasn’t his friend.

I was his transportation plan.

I was his convenience.

I was the part of his life that worked so smoothly he forgot it was a gift.

And maybe that’s what happens when you keep showing up for people without ever drawing a line.

Your kindness stops looking like kindness to them.

It starts looking like a duty.

An arrangement.

An invisible contract you never signed.

Then the day you choose yourself, even once, they act like you betrayed them.

A nurse came in and asked if I had anyone to call.

I almost laughed.

I said, “No, ma’am. Not really.”

She touched my shoulder for one second, and somehow that felt more honest than a year of shared morning rides.

My tests came back okay.

Stress, they said. Exhaustion. A warning, not a disaster.

I drove home alone.

No passenger seat full of complaints.

No waiting outside someone’s apartment.

No pretending that being useful is the same thing as being loved.

The next morning, he texted me again.

“Are you picking me up or what?”

I looked at that message for a long time.

Then I deleted his number.

Some people don’t miss you when you’re gone.

They miss what you were doing for them.

And that may be the loneliest lesson of all.

Source: The Story Maximalist on Facebook

Every morning, I float

 

At 71, I bought a senior pool pass, rolled onto my back, and finally faced the day nobody noticed I was drowning.

“Senior admission is on Tuesdays too, ma’am.”

The girl at the front desk slid the plastic wristband toward me, and my hand shook so hard I almost dropped my wallet.

I wanted to tell her I wasn’t scared of the price.

I was scared of the water.

The new public pool had opened across from my apartment building that spring, right where an empty lot used to collect broken bottles and weeds.

For more than a year, I watched it rise from my kitchen window.

Steel beams. Cement. Blue tile.

Every morning, I stood there with my coffee and stared at that bright, impossible blue like it was calling my name.

My name is Madeline.

I’m seventy-one, widowed, and the mother of three grown children who love me, I suppose, in the rushed and scattered way adults love from far away.

One lives in Texas, one in North Carolina, one in Arizona.

They call when they remember.

They worry most when I mention my knees.

“Mom, maybe it’s time to think about more help.”

That’s how they say it.

More help.

A smaller way of saying less life.

So I paid the senior rate, put on the ugly black swimsuit I had ordered online, and walked into the locker room feeling ancient and exposed.

I had not been in a pool since I was nine years old.

At summer camp in 1964, I slipped off the shallow ledge during free swim.

There were whistles blowing, kids shrieking, counselors laughing with each other.

I remember swallowing water.

I remember clawing at nothing.

I remember seeing faces turned the wrong way.

A boy finally screamed that I was under.

Someone pulled me out.

What stayed with me was not just the fear.

It was the lesson.

You can disappear in a crowd and still nobody sees.

So there I was, sixty-two years later, gripping the metal rail of the warm-water pool like it might save my life.

And then I saw her.

Short silver hair. Strong shoulders. Navy swim cap.

Every morning from my window, I had noticed her gliding through the water before sunrise.

Then she would turn onto her back and float, still as a leaf, eyes toward the ceiling, as if peace itself had picked a body and chosen hers.

I wanted that.

Not the swim cap.

The peace.

She looked at me once and knew.

“First day?”

I nodded.

“I’m Rose,” she said. “Stay in the warm pool. Just walk today. Let the water do some of the work.”

That was it.

No baby voice.

No pity.

No speech about courage.

She pushed off and floated away.

So I walked.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

At first I felt ridiculous, like everybody could see my fear shining off me like a warning light.

But after ten minutes, my knees stopped screaming.

After twenty, my shoulders loosened.

When I climbed out, I realized I was breathing deeper than I had in months.

Maybe years.

I came back the next morning at seven.

Rose was there.

So was an old man named Walter, doing slow leg lifts by the wall.

“Doctor said pills or pool,” he muttered one day. “I picked the cheaper trouble.”

There was also Elena, maybe fifty, with a scar running down one leg.

“Truck hit my car last winter,” she told me. “In here, I don’t limp as much.”

That was our whole group.

Not exactly friends.

We didn’t know each other’s last names.

We didn’t do brunch.

We didn’t swap holiday cards.

But every morning at seven, there we were.

Breathing the same humid air.

Moving through the same warm water.

Making room for one another without asking for much.

Then one morning, Rose stood beside me and said, “Ready to float?”

I laughed too fast.

“No.”

“Yes,” she said. “Your body knows how. Your mind is the problem.”

That irritated me.

Which is probably why I listened.

She showed me how to lift my chin.

How to open my arms.

How not to fight.

The first time I leaned back, I sank so fast I came up coughing and panicked, every year between nine and seventy-one crashing into me at once.

Rose didn’t grab me.

She didn’t say, “You’re okay.”

She only said, “Again.”

I hated her for that for about three seconds.

Then I tried again.

And again.

And again.

For eleven days, I could not do it without stiffening like a board.

For eleven days, I felt foolish.

For eleven days, I almost quit.

Then on the twelfth morning, something changed.

My ears slipped under.

The room went soft and far away.

The ceiling blurred in the steam.

And for the first time in my whole life, I let the water hold me.

I did not sink.

I did not choke.

I did not fight.

I floated.

Thirty seconds, maybe less.

It felt like a lifetime breaking open.

I started crying right there in the pool.

Not graceful tears.

The kind that come from a locked room finally kicked open.

Rose floated beside me and said nothing.

That was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in years.

We kept our routine.

Then Walter stopped showing up.

One day.

Three days.

Five.

The front desk said they couldn’t give out private information.

Rose left a message with the emergency contact Walter had once listed when he slipped near the steps.

Two days later, his daughter called back.

Stroke.

Rehab center.

He had been asking whether the morning pool crowd noticed he was gone.

That question broke something in me.

Not whether we missed him.

Whether we noticed.

So we went.

Not all at once. One at a time.

Ten minutes here. Fifteen there.

We brought him small things from the pool.

“The heater is acting up again.”

“Elena made it to the deep-water lane.”

“Rose bossed a new guy into stretching first.”

The first time I walked into his room, Walter looked at me and cried.

“You came,” he said.

“Of course I came,” I told him. “You belong to us.”

I had not known until that moment how badly I needed to belong to somebody too.

Four months later, Walter came back.

Cane in one hand. Rail in the other.

Nobody clapped.

Nobody made a scene.

We simply shifted to make room and watched him lower himself into the warm water like a man returning to church after a hard winter.

That was our way.

No big speeches.

Just presence.

Last month, three new people joined us.

A retired mechanic after surgery.

A woman with pain written all over her face.

A teenage boy whose mother said the water helped when his panic got too loud.

Rose told them exactly what she had told me.

“Stay in the warm pool. Walk. We’re here every morning.”

Elena no longer needs therapy, but she still comes.

I asked her why.

She looked down at the water and said, “Because when Walter disappeared, you all went looking. Nobody’s ever gone looking for me before.”

I’m seventy-one.

For sixty-two years, I thought my life had been shaped by water.

It wasn’t.

It was shaped by being unseen.

Now every morning at seven, I step into that warm blue pool with people who notice when someone is hurting, when someone is missing, when someone is trying and failing and trying again.

We do not know each other’s politics.

We do not know who each other voted for.

We do not know all the private griefs we carry home.

We know enough.

We know who limps more on rainy days.

We know who jokes when they are scared.

We know who needs a quiet word and who needs silence.

We know when to say, “Again.”

My children still call from far away.

My knees still ache when the weather shifts.

My apartment is still too quiet at night.

But every morning, for one hour, I am not alone.

Every morning, I float.

And every morning, somebody notices.

Source: The Story Maximalist on Facebook