Lying in bed after visiting my aunt, who has Alzheimer’s, I couldn’t sleep. I just kept fixating on the way her arm felt when I touched her — so soft yet solid — and how much love I tried to pour from my fingers, from my voice, into the vessel of her body. It’s a brutal disease and it took her away from us really quickly. But there are things that can’t be taken away. The memory of her swimming at our family’s cabin in Maine, the feeling of my fingers on her shoulder, the song. I started singing the melody of what would become “Swimmer” that night, just a loose scrap of a verse. The next day, I had this impulse to turn it into a dark pop song.