“Considering how much you like water, why didn’t you ever learn to swim?” I’d asked.
“My parents didn’t see the value. They sent me to deportment classes and etiquette training. I learned skills that would make me . . . presentable.”
I thought about how different our upbringings were. “That must have been tough. Did you ever get to just be a kid?”
“Not in the traditional sense. But I’m fortunate to have all that I do and grateful for the opportunities they gave me,” she said, like a script she was used to reciting.
It gutted me that nowhere had she listed love, affection, or fun. “It’s not too late to learn how to swim.”
“I’ve thought about it.”
“I could teach you. There’s an indoor pool at the rec center.”
“I’ll think about it,” she hedged and shifted the focus from her. “You must miss being out there.” She indicated the lake.
“I do. But Dice and I managed to go kayaking last month. You haven’t experienced a cold like that until you hit those icy rapids. It’s a rush.”
“You really are an adventurer,” she observed.
“I can be. I haven’t climbed Mount Kilimanjaro or parachuted out of a plane, but they’re on my bucket list.”
“You have a bucket list?”
“Yeah. You don’t?”
“No, but I have a Fuck-It playlist if that counts.”
“Oh yeah?” That piqued my curiosity. “What’s on it?”
“Tons of songs, but the highlights are “Survivor” by Destiny’s Child, “So What?” by Pink, “Not Ready to Make Nice” by The Chicks, and “Control” by Janet. It’s an eclectic mix that I compiled for this trip.”
“Great choices. Like a middle finger to whatever is holding you back.”
“Exactly.”
“Then maybe instead of a bucket list, you need a fuck-it list.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
“Doing things just for the hell of it. Like, have you ever made a snow angel?”
“No.”
“What? That’s a critical rite of passage. Let’s do it.”
“Right now?” she asked, incredulous.
“Sure.”
“I’ll feel ridiculous.”
“That’s the point. Come on, live in the moment.”
“Okay, fine,” she relented.
Lowering to the ground, we lay down, side by side, and I started waving my arms up and down through the snow. Lexie was hesitant at first, not used to being silly, but soon, she began mimicking my movements. Her laughter rang out. The unguarded sound, pure and sweet, was like discovering the perfect piece of music.
But the night that comes back to me most often was at the retirement home. I perform there once a month—just a few songs on my guitar for the residents. Lexie had joined me, her camera in hand, quietly capturing moments most people wouldn’t notice: Mrs. Henley’s trembling hands as she clapped and Mr. Thompson’s eyes brightening when I played an old Nat King Cole tune. Then there was Lexie herself. She wasn’t just taking pictures—she wasthere. I watched her tuck a blanket around Miss Annabelle’s shoulders, comb her hair, and lean down to say something that made the old woman smile.
