Years ago, we swam, the three of us, in a heavily chlorinated suburban pool, my sisters and me.

Somewhere around the ages of nine and eleven, back when we still inhabited our bodies and gloried in what we could do with them.

With our little melon tummies and chubby thighs, we would hold our noses and pretend to be mermaids, our legs held together tightly in a thrashing fishtail. And we would hold our breath for as long as we could.

It was a different sensation to have only one leg – but a tail! In a weird way, we could swim better!

We were strong and beautiful.

And we talked to one another at the bottom of the shallow end – in a strange dolphin language. Clicks and squeaks – we would try to decipher the words and end up laughing, and swallowing water until our snotty noses burned.

Years later – middle aged now, we swim circles around one another’s busy lives.

But I think we still remember that long ago sea maiden language that we spoke, and we believe that it belongs to us still.

Swimming pool memories – diving for pennies and other water games.

Like the new app we discovered recently – Marco Polo. It has been an unlikely tool to keep us connected in these pandemic times.

Like the swimming pool version, it involves a sort of call and response. We record a message that can be viewed at any time, and answered whenever we want. A singular moment stolen from our day – from inside a closet at work, or on the bus, even out in the chicken yard.

And like the swimming game, for me it is a shoutout to my sisters – while I might be blindfolded, unable to see where my voice lands, I can still sense that one of them is close by.

And I trust that they will hear the echo of my words, that they will let me close enough so that I can touch them.

I need their touch these days.

I think it has taken many years for us to remember the mermaid language.

In the past, we were distracted by our our need to be important in the family – we were insecure, our allegiance to our parents seemed more critical.

But now, there is is this singular, plaintive song that calls across empty space, and when it does, I go back there, to that time when we were wise.

We talk – one day, one sister is burned-out and stressed – another day, another sister is just needing to vent. And sometimes for me, sometimes I’m just lonely and down.

We have come to know the pain in our silences, and that’s when we shout out.

Sometimes we practice listening even when we just want to talk. We mirror the sounds of sadness, grief or insecurity.

Sometimes we just record a silent moment of a sleeping puppy, or a clutch of fresh, brown eggs.

These are all ways that we attune our ears to hear, and really understand, who we are, and what we need.

So often we let the most important relationships slip away. We stay blindfolded, and scared – when what we really want and need is to be discovered, with full disclosure.

My sister Deb is a full disclosure kind of gal, the one who will say what the rest of us is sure as hell not going to say.

But when she called me out recently, I listened. I swam towards what was true for me, and we met again, after several years of distance.

She scares me. And she sets me free.

My other sister, Kath, the calmer one, will always lead with compassion. She has some idea of me that I really want to believe in. It’s been true since we were nine and eleven.

She sees me. And she sets me free.

I am so grateful to be that mermaid again – back with my beautiful mermaid sisters. And I know we will never lose our sisterhood. We’ve got our strength and tenacity, and most of all, our belief in this feminine triad that defines us.

It is a glittery pool of possibility – amidst love and loss, depression and illness and death.

But we are strong, and we keep swimming, sometimes even in the dark, but always alert to the calls across the deep water, and we know that we are loved.