Deep Sea
A friend's family takes seven-year-old you to the shore on Long Island. After an evening out you're riding on the back of her mother's bike over a bridge and your body flops onto the sidewalk like a sack. Mrs. L. settles you back into your spot on the Raleigh and continues.
She's already had so many children, maybe five or six, this is nothing. But also you wonder, did she expect you to fall? The girl doesn't hold on! Not to the bike, not to the rough road of life ahead?
And what about the next day when your slim body tumbles in the Atlantic surf and you emerge gasping and crunching sand between your molars? Hitting your head against the sea bottom hurts like a betrayal and Mrs. L. stands by, tall and curly blond in a navy one-piece.
Does she know that back home your mother paints the trim on a bureau, managing her divorce like a hero, like a soldier? You want her to be concerned and to mention her feelings to her husband at night over scotch on the deck.
Soon after the trip your father drives you to a pond for sunfish. Sunfish are common in clear and slow moving water. A beginner's fish to fish.
This makes sense. He's not going to take you out on a boat for marlin or sword. Imagine? What a satire! Think of the jagged shock to the system with the group cheers and camaraderie, the lures and live bait, the hauling of the catch and the weight on the line.
No one thinks about this pond off Route 1. Tree limbs soak and rot, dragonflies land on the red bandana knotted behind your ear. Somewhere close there’s midges and their larvae, and you can hope for a sunfish with a belly of orange or red.
Phoebe Shaw received an MFA in Playwriting from Columbia University. She writes short fiction and lives in Western Massachusetts with her family.