I first heard it through the trees, the low poplars and birch. New shoots and branches everywhere. Digging at each other. Reaching out through the sun, a yellow shadow. Straining my eyes to see what I heard.
It was like the brook at the cabin in Margaree. As soon as the car turned onto Scot’s Hill. Left. Over the bridge. Right. The tires on the gravel, like teeny tiny bird bones. That’s not the sound.
Now’s it’s time to pee. Staring at the Cape Breton fish poster on the back of the bathroom door.
And then standing on the edge of the brook, my cheap K-Mart flip flops like bloated marshmallows. Jamming my foot down to keep them where they belong. A couple Barbies in each fist. Focused on the massacre at hand.
Plop. Pause. Plop. Watching their little nipple-freeplasticlimbsplasticstrandsofhair rush tumble downstream. Goodbye forever. I’m good though.
I have a whole pillowcase of these things.
