Amongst a group of boys and young men, I spotted my father sitting on his board, legs spread around the fiberglass leaving his feet dangling in the Prussian-blue water. He’d been coming to Ditch Plains since before it was Ditch Plains, he once told me. I still wasn’t sure what he meant. He held a smile out there in the Atlantic, surrounded by the only thing that made him truly happy. He’s such a fish, I’d heard my mother say countless times before. I looked over at her, and she too waited for my father to, like a flying fish, break the surface and glide through the East End air.
from my novella, “Memorial Day” (via dannygoodmanwriting)
Reblogged from Unrelieved Responsibility & Permanent Distraction
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