By Britta Bauer
My cousin Cale and I used to play on the beach. A lake beach. A clear lake. So clear that as I leaned over the bow of my grandfather’s fishing boat, I could see the pontoon plane that crashed through the water twenty feet below me. I saw the outline of the cockpit window and the propeller blades and thought that doesn’t belong down there.
Cale and I ran along the shore, between my dock and his, throwing fistfuls of sand at the lake. A thousand tiny pieces of earth crashing into water, the inverse of rain. And rain called us in. Gray threads stitching sky to water on the opposite shore, lightning cutting through the fabric, sending us sprinting, kicking up sand behind us like comet tails, leaving tiny divots like craters.