Tovah Burstein
When the Mayfly Waits One day, you will see a mayfly. Just a small white moth, cousin of the dragonfly but smaller, slighter, fleeting. And on that day, you can be sure it is not the same mayfly that you failed to see the day before. That one has died and tomorrow there will be a whole new generation. With such short lives, what wisdom can the mayfly leave you? What lessons does the mayfly teach its daughter? None. Do not expect to recognize her again; she will appear an entirely new moth, a new beast. And when you meet me, remember me well. I too will never wake up the same way twice. * * * Today, Alexa and I are waiting at the crest of our neighborhood hill. We can go no further, or my mom won’t be able to see us from the house. The grass tickles my leg hair and I scratch at my ankle with a too-long toenail. I hate the grass touching me, but the tar is too hot for bare feet, so we stand on the edge. Committed to neither. We are waiting for boys to come around the curve of the road. Our bathing suits are already dry, warm and soft from the sun. The suits are hand-me-downs from an older cousin or neighbor, so they don’t fit just right: the seat sags down between our bony legs, the fabric pinches at our armpits. My brother told me I can’t ever be a dancer because my butt is too big. I choose the suit that sags the most. The ends of my hair are still wet. Each pigtail scrapes like needles on my sun-baked shoulders. Alexa is chewing on a purple clover petal, sucking it for the honey. We listen for the soft click of bike gears around the bend. “They better get their butts down here fast, or they’ll really get it.” She sighs and arches her back. Her breasts jiggle, heaping from the top of her tiger-striped suit. They are perfect globes, rounding up toward her chin in beautiful buoyant arcs. Her shoulders roll forward with the strain of carrying these perfect breasts. The fabric at her nipples is sheer and worn from too many other wearers or
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