In The Spirit of Olympic Commemoration

Your mother trains ardently for nearly fifteen years (almost to the point of neglecting you, but not quite) in the best swimming clubs and associations of the country, positively determined to enter the Olympics and win, in spite of everything, a gold medal in at least one discipline. And wouldn’t you know? She actually manages to be in such condition that she is drafted for the nation’s swimming olympic team. She takes a plane, entirely radiant and at the same time fully concentrated on what is to be her duty- nay, her obligation to herself and her kin. You yourself swell with pride and sentiments of glory that seem to walk with your mother.  At long last, she is in the olympics, the oldest athlete to ever take part in the games at some formal competition instead of being just another adornment in ceremonial procedures. She is ready…

The pool churns at ease from one side to the other, and like the water your mother feels coherent and light, able and flexible, slender and powerful. She begins to stretch, flexing her muscles and warming up to the rather cold water. Her eyes are quickly covered by the waterproof goggles you gave her ere she stepped on the plane on her way to the olympics, and her hair is contained in a quaint rubber hat, sporting the name of the nation she proudly represents. All the hopes and dreams seem to be embodied in her frame, in her swimming equipment, and in her goggle-covered eyes that flick with fury. At the beckoning of a loud siren, she steps unto the starting block, announcing that the Individual Medley is to begin at a moment’s notice. Her whole body seems to constrict with pressure and the tension of the moment, as she leans down ready to leap into the water. And then…. BANG, she jumps into the pool with ferocity and grace, and her head soon emerges to the surface, at all speed.

Your mother trails behind at third place on butterfly, and you begin to feel a very human fear that she is to lose. She remains in this position for the duration of backstroke. Another swimmer passes her on breast stroke, and you cannot help but feel worried. Your mother is focused, however, fully aware of what she has to do. Freestyle is her province… it is her time. For the last one hundred metres, she triggers her most potent swimming. The water lifts itself in perfect harmony with her body, and seems to filter her at an amazing speed, past the third and second-placed swimmers. The last twenty-five metres are nearly ended, and she is still not first place. Borne out of her conviction and spirit, she picks up an ever mighty pace, and in a breathtaking moment she wooshes past the leading swimmer, claiming first place for her own… There are only five metres to complete, just one more stroke…

Just as her hand is one precise milimetre away from the slippery pool wall, a 150 kilogram sumo wrestler is borne into existence thirty five metres on top of your mother’s position, and drops at a constant velocity of 2 to the power of 2,263 kilometres per hour, serial crushing her and sinking below pool ground, to their utter deaths.

“WHYYYYYYYYYY??? WHYYYYY??????” you let our a roaring cry after overcoming the bewilderment, feeling your mother’s aspirations for gold and her own life slip away with your bitter tears. And while reasons float adrift like hydrogen particles in the continuum of space, the most pertinent explanation is 42.