A Turtle Story

Turtles are their shells.

Sunlight dries lake water from my hair and begins to weave in golden highlights of summer. On my swim, water rims my lips and pushes along my cheeks. Light sizzles off the surface and a lake girl feels free for a time. Old Man Lou yells, “Well, hello, Freckle Face” as I make my way up the dock.

Boat cuddles with nieces – sunburn shoulders – mirrors on mirrors.

Singing Happy Birthday to Dad felt like a dirge. This and other ways one celebrates the hedgehog in a metal cage.

Lately, the purification and benediction of incense. I'm not opposed to a few good chants under the moon's lantern.

Lagoons at my feet.

Floods around my shoulders as a shawl.

Old yard waste rotting in the metal wheelbarrow festers in last week's rain. Its putrid tang takes me by surprise when tipping the barrow. There is the smell of death done right and the smell of death done dirty.

But why not donkeys? Kyle makes the joke, “it's not enough that she wants chickens. Ask her about her dreams of a donkey!”

And yet, when I reveal my most tender underside, he gently stays with me until it is time to turn upright.

Though turtles find peace in the deep, perhaps breathing at the thin compassion of the surface is okay too.