Sine qua non

I spent the morning with my father. We had breakfast―coffee and toast, completely pedestrian. We talked politics―headline news, completely surface. He asked if I would like to go for a swim with him. I said yes. He looks even older in the sun, the folds of his flesh gathered unwillingly on his once-proud frame. He did not swim, not really; he ploughed through the water, his 'bad arm' immobile and rigid.

'You taught me how to swim, father,' I reminded him, falsely bright.
'So I did,' he replied, his sparse head of hair wet and clinging.

Now I watched over him the way he once watched over me, as he bobbed along the length of the pool. And I felt the ache swell into my heart, until I had to duck into the water so he could not see me tear.

Love―as ineffable as it can get―will always be my sine qua non. Viva amor.