She can just make the crab out, shadowed and distorted, trundling sideways across the rock, and she pursues it, kicking her feet to stay pressed down against the bottom, and then she lays her hands on the cold crisp shell, somersaults in the water, and surges upward into her own plume of hair, up along a passage of black rock, pitted and winding, gaping windows alterately fountaining water or sucking it back, the weeds moving rhythmically in and out with this labored breathing, some trick of the light making the pool's surface into a shifting mirror, and though she should look up and see her grandpa
bent over the pool, she can not.
Many hospitals are
bending over backwards these days to try and meet women's needs (c.d players in the labour suites, birthing balls / bars /
pools / showers, electric oil burners, electric «candles», double beds for couples to share, etc.).