The Pond

They separated, and it became necessary to open the closet that held all my childhood things. Boxes were splitting open, some sunken and faded from heat. Some of the boxes had names. Mostly they weren’t identified in any way. All my things would have to be stored somewhere else. My mother sat behind me with a large black trash bag, waiting for me to hand her things not worth keeping. I reached into the closet, pulling out cigar boxes of notes, letters, and sketchbooks. There were tinier things that I’d thought would keep. I found my old collection of erasers I’d stored in a lunchbox. The erasers had melted into a putty-like mess. The eraser of all erasers, she said. Then she began talking about the year Dad had drained the pond in order to fill it up again because he’d wanted to stock it with catfish. I remembered the heat from that summer and the enormous job it had been—the trench that had been dug and how the pond had drained itself slowly at first, then all at once. The smell of decay and sediment had filled the air at dusk. I was small, but I had helped him trudge through the mud and drain what water was left. I could only stare as the water rushed away, pooling in the fields at sunset.