street. We tear though backyard gardens, hurtle sandboxes, dodge swing sets until, one by one, the boys drop out of the chase, curses fizzling like damp fireworks in the sweetness of dusk.
I love the carefully printed notes he sends me afterward, signed with Xâs and Oâs, and the twin silver bracelets he steals from his motherâs jewelry box and presents to me, wrapped in toilet paper and Scotch tape. He asks me if Iâll go with him to Fish Day, Port Washingtonâs annual summer festival. This is early June, and Fish Day isnât until late July, but that doesnât matter. My first date! And yet, Iâm relieved when my mother says no, Iâm too young to have a sweetheart. âJust tell him that July is a long time away,â she suggests, but what I tell him is something Iâve read in a book: Sorry, but your eyes are set too low for such a high fence.
I love it that Iâm not old enough for certain things, and that Iâm still young enough for others, like taking my shirt off at Harrington Beach, where my girl-cousins and I, naked to the waist, splash through Lake Michiganâs frigid shallows after schools of little fish. Now and then, we have to hop out and bury our aching feet in warm sand. I love that ache, how it feels worse before it feels better. I love the alewife stink of the beach, and its smooth, gray stones. High overhead, along the edge of the bluff, evergreens grow at terrible angles, like crooked teeth. Each spring, a few more come tumbling down, and another couple inches of Port Washington floats away.
I love the names of the little towns to the north: Dacada, Oostburg, Sheboygan. Sometimes, my brother and I ride our bikes to the farm in Knellsville where my father was born. We leave them hidden in a corn row while we enter the cool woods. Following deer paths, we make our way east until we reach the dropoff. Below is the shining platter of the lake. The shark fin of a sailboat. Further out, a barge with its dark load of coal. Our nostrils burn with the sharp, green sting of juniper bushes, and we rub the dusty berries between our fingers before scrabbling down the side of the bluff, clinging to exposed roots, grabbing branches, slidingthe last ten feet on our butts. Already, we can hear the artesian well, buried somewhere deep in the haunch of the bluff. A stream of water runs clear and cold toward the lake, and we squat to drink from it, cupping our hands, pretending we are self-sufficient, survivors living off the land.
Â
At night, my mother comes into our rooms to hear our bedtime prayers. When my father is home, heâll sometimes listen, too. But he stands in the doorway, shaking his head. He thinks my brother and I are too old for this.
âAre we too old?â I ask.
My mother says no. She explains that Grandpa and Grandma Ansay never tucked my father in, so he doesnât understand how important it is.
Sometimes, I feel very sorry for my father.
Dear God , I plead with the dark emptiness above my bed, Iâm sorry for all my sins. Please bless my mother and brother and father and me, and people here and on other planets, and all animals everywhere â
I say the same thing every night, though âall animals everywhereâ is a recent addition. Father Stone says that animals canât go to heaven, but I believe that if I pray, if I have faith, all things are possible.
â and please protect everybody who has died, and everybody who hasnât been born yet, and Satan â
After all, didnât God say to love all things? And wasnâtSatan one of his creatures? I have an idea that if everybody prays for him, Satan will come around to Godâs light once again, wake up as if splashed by cold water, and then there will be no more evil in the world. For a while, Iâd been enlisting the help of kids at school, making them join hands to pray for Satan in the belly of the jungle gym, but then my teacher gave me a
I love the carefully printed notes he sends me afterward, signed with Xâs and Oâs, and the twin silver bracelets he steals from his motherâs jewelry box and presents to me, wrapped in toilet paper and Scotch tape. He asks me if Iâll go with him to Fish Day, Port Washingtonâs annual summer festival. This is early June, and Fish Day isnât until late July, but that doesnât matter. My first date! And yet, Iâm relieved when my mother says no, Iâm too young to have a sweetheart. âJust tell him that July is a long time away,â she suggests, but what I tell him is something Iâve read in a book: Sorry, but your eyes are set too low for such a high fence.
I love it that Iâm not old enough for certain things, and that Iâm still young enough for others, like taking my shirt off at Harrington Beach, where my girl-cousins and I, naked to the waist, splash through Lake Michiganâs frigid shallows after schools of little fish. Now and then, we have to hop out and bury our aching feet in warm sand. I love that ache, how it feels worse before it feels better. I love the alewife stink of the beach, and its smooth, gray stones. High overhead, along the edge of the bluff, evergreens grow at terrible angles, like crooked teeth. Each spring, a few more come tumbling down, and another couple inches of Port Washington floats away.
I love the names of the little towns to the north: Dacada, Oostburg, Sheboygan. Sometimes, my brother and I ride our bikes to the farm in Knellsville where my father was born. We leave them hidden in a corn row while we enter the cool woods. Following deer paths, we make our way east until we reach the dropoff. Below is the shining platter of the lake. The shark fin of a sailboat. Further out, a barge with its dark load of coal. Our nostrils burn with the sharp, green sting of juniper bushes, and we rub the dusty berries between our fingers before scrabbling down the side of the bluff, clinging to exposed roots, grabbing branches, slidingthe last ten feet on our butts. Already, we can hear the artesian well, buried somewhere deep in the haunch of the bluff. A stream of water runs clear and cold toward the lake, and we squat to drink from it, cupping our hands, pretending we are self-sufficient, survivors living off the land.
Â
At night, my mother comes into our rooms to hear our bedtime prayers. When my father is home, heâll sometimes listen, too. But he stands in the doorway, shaking his head. He thinks my brother and I are too old for this.
âAre we too old?â I ask.
My mother says no. She explains that Grandpa and Grandma Ansay never tucked my father in, so he doesnât understand how important it is.
Sometimes, I feel very sorry for my father.
Dear God , I plead with the dark emptiness above my bed, Iâm sorry for all my sins. Please bless my mother and brother and father and me, and people here and on other planets, and all animals everywhere â
I say the same thing every night, though âall animals everywhereâ is a recent addition. Father Stone says that animals canât go to heaven, but I believe that if I pray, if I have faith, all things are possible.
â and please protect everybody who has died, and everybody who hasnât been born yet, and Satan â
After all, didnât God say to love all things? And wasnâtSatan one of his creatures? I have an idea that if everybody prays for him, Satan will come around to Godâs light once again, wake up as if splashed by cold water, and then there will be no more evil in the world. For a while, Iâd been enlisting the help of kids at school, making them join hands to pray for Satan in the belly of the jungle gym, but then my teacher gave me a
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