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Surfacing Trish Crapo

Eight or nine years old, I stood on the dock over the dark, slatted river, waiting for the sea cow to surface. I didn't know the word manatee, didn't know men had mistaken her for a mermaid. I only knew that if I waited she would arrive. The river smelled part bracken, part small- engine oil and kissed the wall with a sound so sexual I was glad no one was near to be embarrassed for. A chubby kid, I was sure my way into the world wouldn't be through beauty. And so, A had already begun to run my fingers along the fronts of words, feeling for hinges. The plastic bag of bread-ends clammy in my hand, sweat in my palm senseless as hope ---and then I saw her, Ponderous, oblong, she wallowed first, then spiraled up, her face glamorous, human, until she shed the glimmering skin of water, broke the spell with a comical snort. I minded that she sloughed her mystery off so easily, though it comforted me too--- now I could give her bread and watch her eat it. But it was strange to think she knew me. Strange that she turned from the soft weeds along the bank---every day about this time---nosed into the current, pushing toward me.