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FEAR
by Susan Pilewski

When he was six my Father saw an ocean for the first time. The Atlantic.
Coney Island. It was the summer his mother died. He told me once how he
stood at the shoreline with his Aunt Kate and cried because it was so vast. He could not clearly see its end. He thought: This is where she must be otherwise she would come back. Is it harder to think that those we love do not die, but are willfully lost? Beneath the waves her red hair trailing westward with the current, like a multitude of mimosa plumes tossed by the wind. There were boys that same summer much older than he who threatened to throw him off the pier, laughing when he pleaded he could not swim.

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