My 10 year old son lies supine in a bath without bubbles. His lithe white body like a mullet fish in the lagoon floats fragile in dull gray waters. His shins are like champagne flutes. His wiener sways and strains for the surface like a blade of ocean kelp. Here’s your towel, man, I say. He’s dipped his ears beneath the surface so he can’t hear what I’m saying. Or at least plausibly deny. Underwater we only hear with our skull. Everything echoes. Each sound takes its turn. What did I even say. I’d forgotten the towel. I’m not even there. He’s already asleep. He’s driving away. He’s loving a girl. He’s sending me ties for Father’s Day. He pats his hand on my head when I die. What he hears is just a faint echo. But he never forgets. He plunges his head underwater. He emerges clean but I must wait until the morning to shower.