(for Louise Bierig)

Before she left Canada,
Louise wanted to swim
in Lake Erie one more time
to help fortify her for
the drive home to Media,
Pennsylvania.

I brought my suit, not
expecting to use it to take
my first dip in in a Great Lake,
but I had lake envy after
watching Louise two days
earlier—her swim was lovely,
the water temperature perfect.

She became an online writing
buddy during times of isolation.
I was her teacher; she has
become mine, reminding me
that all I have to do is
tug on the swimsuit, head for
the beach, drop the towel,
and walk slowly into the vast
liquid stretching to the horizon,
feeling ridges of sand underfoot—
no toe-seeking rocks for stubbing.

If it’s too cold, she says, you can
turn back and walk out. But I
keep going, water reaching knees,
then waist, then shoulders,
warming with every step, my
feet bouncing off the shallow
bottom, and there I am, me
and my new friend, bobbing
and chatting, floating face up,
toes skyward.

I turn ny weightless body
to look back toward the long beach
stretching behind me, then
turn again toward the invisible,
opposite shore of this Great Lake,

which I trust is actually
out there—because Louise
says it is—the place where
she grew up, a land I
cannot see, in a country
we both call home.