I took my grandson swimming today. To a tiny inflatable pool off the side of the deck at the ‘kids’ house. We sat in the 85 degree air, in tepid water, liberally coated w/ SPF 50, and splashed. And splashed. And splashed again, with great enthusiasm.

Then we filled a Solo cup with a pink floaty sponge, and held our tongues out to be shot with a water gun. Not to mention throwing a filthy yellow tennis ball that Silas-the-wonder-dog kept dropping in the water for fetch.

It was its own form of Nirvana — the everyday miracle of a happy life.

My grandson played at swimming — paddling as he lay across my outstretched legs, putting his head in the water to drink (don’t tell my son — I would NEVER have let my sons do that, but this is my grandson!). I gently poured water over him, and he laughed happily.

Me too.

What is about swimming with little fishes? How is it that my world simplifies, and reduces in size like cropping a picture back to only the essential image?

Much of it is, of course, the way a 13-month-old little fish reminds me of how magic a summer-day-add-water is. You don’t even need much water: enough to pour from a cup, enough to cool off when the sun goes behind a cloud.

Just an ordinary day, with a little extra magic: sunlight and water. And a one-year-old who hasn’t yet forgotten how special those are.