You swim through a big river all your life. For some, the current is hard, rough. Your arms never stop, your legs thrash to stay afloat. You breathe in equal measures of water and air, and the rocks scrape against your flesh, tearing, bruising, challenging the strength of your bones. You struggle to touch the soft earth on either side, to lay your back on salving grasses, feel the wet evaporate from your arms. Rest. Dry off. The realm of dreams, a rolling softness that you long for, something to reach for, and so you accept the smashing of your body, and you breathe in the foam because that fertile green is so close. Every small branch of the river offers promise, if only the current would pull you inside and gently tuck you onto shore.
And some people are born with a bridge beneath their feet, and never know how the water tastes, or feel the foam fill their ears, and they never care to find out.
We were always swimmers.