Flow

By Kira Rodriguez

Dad lifted him so he could put the top hat on my cold, smooth head. Mom wrapped the scarf around, not too tight, but enough that the wind wouldn’t blow it off. My eyes, dark and glistening in the winter sun, made him smile brighter than the sun that started to make me sweat. I knew, as I watched Dad and Mom swing the little boy back and forth under the March sun, that it would be some time before I saw them this way again, dressed in a top hat and scarf. Soon the deer would come, then the squirrels, then the little boy would be running through me in his rain boots, chasing his dog, a small brown Newfoundland Labrador mix. Mom, with her belly growing each day, would call them in for lunch. Dad would laugh as he stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her with a smile warmer than the sun that would dry me up until I returned larger than ever, ready for the little boy and the dog that wasn’t so small to splash around in. His floaties, blue with red and orange dinosaurs, kept him afloat as he learned to kick like the dog whose slobber foamed on my surface. The August sun beamed down on us until Mom yelled for them to get out, that it was time, and Dad lifted the little boy to never splash again until I mixed with dirt on the cooling earth. I ran down the little boy’s face as he kissed his sister, dressed in matching costumes: he was Snoopy, and she was a little pumpkin. They sat on the stairs, pumpkins glowing beside them as Mom said, “cheese,” and they rushed inside, leaving me to freeze so they could roll me up and dress me in a top hat and scarf.