Pressing his hands together, palms outwards, he wiggles his fingers. , he says, . He goes on about evolution, exoskeletons, ligaments attached to muscles, My mother rolls her eyes, shrugs him off as he tries to ride us up the mountain. my father says, surmising the British naturalist most likely sloshed through the shallow pools where the diminutive crustaceans reside, their small brown bodies blending in with the sediment. Dotting Wellington’s many pools are mossy looking steppingstones. These inviting stones aren’t stones at all, my father explains, but , a hard, cushion like plant.
Crouching over a pond on the mountain, my father uses a kitchen strainer to scoop up sediment. He gently sifts; the smaller particles slip through the holes and back into the water. Then he ladles the crustaceans, along with bits of debris into a cake sized, white enamel pan. The white allows him to more easily identify and sort the tiny bodies. He collects, counts, and measures. Up and down the mountain, month after month. Collecting, counting, measuring. He’ll takes pictures of preserved isopods, position their bodies precisely, smallest to largest, rows of brown commas on a page, no words between them. On the eve of my father’s surgery, the tulip tree in the backyard grows weary and releases one of its large limbs. As the ground shudders, my mother fears her world is slipping away. This is fact: My sister Holly and I are two continents. Ever evolving, we disassemble and collide. Just as we begin to drift away, we join together, only to pull apart in another area. Holly is always the helper when someone is in need. There is no give to her giving, and this creates tensions between us. The other day she mentioned she was going to clean
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