Creative Nonfiction

I parked my bike and walked to the corner of the wall. On either side of me were the types of houses my parents always dreamed of having, big, white ones that looked out on the sea. I took off my Tevas and dipped my toes into the water, thick, slimy seagrass stuck to my ankles as I traced the trajectory of an anhinga I thought was a cormorant before laying back on the sharp wall. I figured it was like acupuncture or something, the scratchy stone pressing almost deliberately into my back. I imagined myself dissolving into the sky, like alka seltzer, my tiny bubbles racing gently into the air. If a giant came along to sip me up would he have to pinch his nose like I do when I drink vitamin D?

 

I felt my phone buzz and picked up a call from my mom. She was crying. She had asked my father to cut back on drinking. It had gone bad. Be careful when you go home.

I think I’d taste salty. As salty as the seawater.

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Read Full Story Here: Open-air, Salty Water