The Summer After

The creek reappeared in April, lined with layered ice from the repeated frost and thaw of early spring.

I test the ice with my boot. You stare intently at the trickle of bubbles rising from below the slab. Your canines glint in the morning light as you squint, your dark brown eyes turning to pitch. You jump.

The ice gives way and you slip two feet down to the bottom. You let out a jagged cry, pulling your fists in to shield yourself from the cold.

Well, you say, chuckling and looking back over your shoulder, this is white as fuck.

Laughing in agreement, I follow you in. I can’t stop smiling, so much threatening to surface.

The first things your mother and I said to each other were apologies. She apologized for her tired appearance; I apologized for only understanding bolsillos. Despite my name and features, all languages besides English fall out of my mouth broken. The small woman with bags under her eyes held your younger brother’s hand, pulled your chest to her temple, and said, they are the pockets where I hide my dreams.

We slowly regain confidence in walking underwater, catching up to the rest of the class twenty meters upstream, waist-deep. As we approach the group, our professor diagnoses the creek’s temperamental behavior: ephemeral.

We spend hours striking the creek bed with shovels, summoning vanishing underwater billows of yellows, browns, and grays. We sift through the dirt, counting macroinvertebrates and placing them in our buckets. I become frustrated as your scoops find more than mine, jealous of how easy it is for you to gather all that life. As your bucket gains weight, you fight gently against the downstream pull.

For the summer after your first hospitalization, you are briefly yourself again. So much yourself.

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