Girls at the Water's Edge

A girl watches her brother push a small wooden skiff into calm water while she keeps one hand inside her robe.

The water lay flat. Sunlight hit it and made tiny gold stars jump up and down. A small wooden boat sat in the middle. The wood was painted red, but the paint looked old and thin. Patches of grey showed where the sun dried it many times.

Moss grew thick on the north bank. It felt soft and damp to a hand that wanted to touch it. No one else looked there. Only this girl saw the green patch where the mud met the grass. She kept one hand inside her robe sleeves. The fabric brushed against her wrist, rough and worn from washing many shirts.

Her brother stood near the boat. He wore a blue shirt with short sleeves. His skin had dust from making wood smooth earlier. He lifted his arm high in the air. A wind blew, and he waved toward the center of the lake. The girl watched him with her other hand free now. She looked at the moss, then the boat, then his waving hand.

"Dad said we can go," the boy said. His voice sounded clear and thin, like a bird calling over far trees. "But the water is deep." "You can come too," she answered slowly. Her voice was low, not loud at all. "Just stay close." He nodded once, just enough to show yes. Then he pushed the skiff forward again. The planks creaked softly, a sound like old shoes on dry floorboards.

A duck floated nearby, turning its head left then right to watch them pass. Its feathers were brown and wet, dripping small drops into the glassy dark blue surface below. The girl stepped closer, her bare foot touching the grass edge, feeling cool wetness soak slightly into her sock.