Old Souls

          It was my mom who taught me to swim. Years later, she said it was because she was so bitter that my father got to teach me everything else—riding a bike, how to start a fire, how to build shelter from discarded wood—and she wanted to pass a skill onto me, too. She took me to the lake by our cabin, bundled me into our boat and rowed us out into the middle of the water. Jump, she’d said, before folding her arms and staring at me, expectantly.           I’d laughed. Mom was known for her sense of humor. But when she didn’t crack a smile I realized she wasn’t joking, and the panic started to seep in around my edges, I reached for the oars to row back to shore, but she pushed me back down on the boat bench with a firm hand.          Jump , she repeated. Because when you jump, you’ll find your wings as you fall.           I glanced up at my father, who was hovering nervously on the bank, clutching a life buoy. I swallowed the fear rising up my throat, balled my fists, and I jumped