Everyone loves a hot tub. The warm embrace of the water around my body as my head rests on the surrounding concrete always seems to ease all of my muscles. When I lived in West Windsor, a suburb of New York, my family had a hot tub in our backyard. It was only three feet deep, but when you were sitting on the circular bench inside the hot tub, you could sink in so only the tip of your nose was outside the water, allowing you to keep breathing without feeling the harsh winds of the cold night. The water’s color seemed more like it was meant to lap the shores of a Caribbean Island, rather than bubbling in a tub that some old Italian men had constructed with shovels and concrete in 2016. I spent most of my nights bathing in the chlorine-filled vessel, allowing whatever stressors from the day to wash away with the waves my body created.

After a few years of having a hot tub, my parents decided it was time for a change and bought a house in a different suburb of New York. This new house would not have a hot tub, so on my final night, I went out back with my father to enjoy it one last time. Despite my shorter stature, everyone always says my dad and I look alike. As a child, whenever I heard that, my face would turn red with anger. My dad aged like milk left outside on a hot summer day. He has a chest filled with a mix of grey and black curly hair, his stomach hangs so far over his feet I often question if he can tell what shoes he has on, and his once normal-sized chain now resembles a choker that goth girls wear, when fastened around his thick neck. As my dad lumbered into the hot tub, I couldn’t help but think, “was he always like this?” 

On normal nights in the hot tub, my dad and I would sit together in silence as we do during most of our endeavors. Whether we are fishing, hunting, or watching tv, the three main things we do together, more than a couple of words are rarely exchanged between us. But tonight was different. He looked at me intently as he took a sip from his whiskey, chilled by the two ice cubes melting in his glass. My dad lit his cigar, took a few drags, and spoke, “You know I used to have a hot tub like this.” 

“Really,” I said as my eyes uncontrollably diverted from his hazel eyes to his hairy gut. 

“Yeah, my Uncle Rizzo made it. All he needed was a couple of shovels and some concrete.” He took a few more drags of his brown Cubano. “I used to go out to the hot tub all the time, sometimes with your grandpa, but mostly alone.” He tapped his cigar; it looked like it was about a quarter of the way done. The ashes sprinkled into the water, destroying the illusion of the perfect blue water. With his yellow teeth showing from all the previous cigars on nights like this, he said, “ Maybe those people are right son. We really are similar.” As I sat there in the hot tub with my father, similarly to how my dad sat in his hot tub with my grandfather in some suburb of New York, my chain began to tighten its grip around my neck.