Strange but true that boys, or call them young men, looked at my parents in an Armed Forces recruiting poster and then volunteered. My father with sharp ribs and wave of hair. My mother’s blond hair pulled back, toes curled off cement. Towels over arms. The narrowing lanes of the pool behind a tribute to perspective. August, nineteen fifty-one. I wasn’t proud of how gracefully they aged, or of their later kindness, but of those swimmers before their swim, not yet wondering how to beat something into a ploughshare, or if a thing must be beaten at all.