Page 15

Father is close. He hollers through a dry mouth, words that are angry and unintelligible. Mother’s already on the dock as my feet hit the boardwalk. My brother is a few feet ahead. The boardwalk sways in the water, beneath our precipitation, on buoyant Styrofoam blocks coated with lake scum, and I’m scared to fall. Mother steps aboard the pontoon. She tells my brother to free the rope that keeps the boat from drifting out of the jetty. He does it quickly, and Mother helps him on, and then me, as I crest the dock in a fever. My brother engages the motor like Father taught him, and we pull away from the dock. The big muddy brown takes us into itself, and digests us, like a massive, ninety-mile bowel. Father watches us from the dock in a fit of heaving, flushed and wet. His madness tires once our distance has qualified for security. I can see in his eyes, even from this growing distance, that he’s suddenly doubled back on himself. He’s remorseful and self-effacing. “Glor!” His voice doesn’t carry. It sounds poorly supplied and underdeveloped, failing to bridge the watery canyon with weighted clarity. He might be crying, but we’ve gone too far to be sure. 15

The Metric Issue 08 - Literary Magazine  
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