After my mother died, she came into the house every night and cleaned. I could hear the water running and pans settling into the dish rack. I wanted to yell down for her to rest in peace or something, but I knew she would not hear me. So I tried to clean every inch of […]
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I‘d been so aroused by the idea of him for so long, actually seeing him was like a first kiss. The Young Man of the Sea. He’d haunted the shore for a century. Thinking of him had become a full-time job. Our family’s summer cottage sat squat on the Connecticut coast, on a rough piece […]
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She’s got her system down: a fly on a string, to lure a snapper to snap; a sharp carving knife to sever an extended neck. Simple. Safer than other methods. She’s lost toes to other methods. She’s lost fingers. Snappers have wickedly sharp beaks. No one knows that better than she does. There are safer ways, of course. A heavy enough rock lobbed from a distance can shatter a carapace. Shatter a spine. You don’t have to get close enough to lose digits. But that way is cruel. Jenny doesn’t like cruelty. She doesn’t like killing turtles, either. But it has to be done. There are two turtles today, which is the right number of turtles. They’re near the pond, behind the house where Jenny lives with her grandmother. Where Jenny’s parents used to live. It is a place where turtles rarely go anymore. A place the turtles have learned to avoid. The coincidence of finding them here heartens Jenny. It is as if they have been guided here. By something inside them. Guided to Jenny’s fly on a string. To Jenny’s knife.
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