by Phyllis Rittner
Look! he shouts. It’s enormous! I follow my husband’s finger as a blazing amber ball of sun hangs precariously low over the water, its wide beam reflecting the light ripples of the Atlantic. I grab my camera, race toward the shore. I pass families stamping out barbecue pits, hauling giant coolers toward the parking lot, all oblivious to this spectacle. As I fumble with my lens, the ball dips lower like a giant egg yolk, dropping behind docked boats and empty park benches.
I run toward the pier, past the young boys and their fathers. Heads down, they cast fishing poles into the ocean, converse in Spanish in hushed tones. Just this afternoon, as we spread our picnic blanket on the sand, we spotted a young family nervously scanning the park for agents. The wife kept pointing to a suspicious unmarked van at the park’s entrance, the same van I had surreptitiously taken photos of earlier. !Nosotros tenemos que irnos ahora! she implored. But the husband refused to leave. They argued a bit, some of which I gleaned from my rusty high school Spanish. Finally the wife pulled her toddler son in her arms, gathered her things and left her husband alone on the pier.
Hurry! I hear my husband’s voice call in the distance. Catch it before...
The sun, now a fiery, succulent tangerine, drops deeper, falls between the lace of tree branches. I snap photos on the pier, try to capture the last ounce of this day, this fleeting moment of reverence, but all I can think of is the young wife from this afternoon. Is she stirring soup in her kitchen, watching the local news, her son balanced on her hip?
The sky darkens and the weeping willows sway in the breeze. Suddenly my husband is beside me, slips an arm around my waist. We stand on the pier for a long time, watch the fishermen cast out their poles, patiently waiting for a bite.
Not much left now but minnows, he says flatly.
Is it safe? Now that it’s dark?
Everybody’s gotta eat. There’s an ache in his voice. It matches the ache in my chest. The one I’ve tried to ignore as the sun warmed my shoulders, as the surf caressed my toes.
Look papa! We turn to watch a young boy struggle with his pole, trying to pull a fish from the ocean. His father steadies his grip and together they fling the pole high into the air. Lo tengo! the boy yells, jumping up and down. His father laughs, plops a mackerel into their bucket, lifts his son high onto his shoulders. Mira, mira! he shouts to the fishermen. Mi hijo! There is applause as the boy waves his hands in triumph.
We walk silently to the parking lot, holding hands. I am grateful the van I saw earlier is gone. I turn back, search the pier for a glimpse of father and son. I finally find them through my lens, still in their victory pose, celebrating their conquest. I zoom onto their fading silhouette, capture it seconds before it disappears.
Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in Fictive Dream, Emerge Literary Journal, Portrait of New England, Wrong Turn Lit (Best Microfiction nominee), and others. She can be found on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner