Tuesday morning and Rachelle is sitting out in the backyard working on her laptop.

From the table she’s sitting at, she keeps an eye on Jones splashing about in an inflatable pool a few feet away. And the sunlight is rendering everything so vivid.

The water Jones is churning, the shadow of the leaves whirling over the patio stones, the colour of my wife’s hair.

And then somebody in a neighbouring yard lets out an explosive sneeze. Startled, Jones bolts up from the water. Like an otter. His body slick and perfect in the sun. Quickly reassured, he dives back under the surface and starts waving his arms about in an effort to create as many bubbles as possible. He is so proud of this. All these bubbles flowing up around him, mysterious creatures summoned by this wild and tiny God. And after demonstrating his new powers, he smiles at me, “These bubbles, they are magic, daddy. Look at them!”

And I do, and I am Jones’ age, falling off an inflatable swan and sinking into the deep end of a motel pool. Bubbles streaming away from me as the refracted world of light above grew odder and more distant, and then a muffled splash as my father jumped into the water. Holding me with one arm, he swam me up until we broke through the surface into the light– gasping as if newly born, everything around us wet, glowing and beautiful.