The “empty” light came on as I pulled out of my son’s school this morning. I went to the bank and then drove to the gas station.
I stood next to my car with my hand on the grimy gas pump. The unseasonably warm breeze picked up, carrying the scent of gasoline and oil. I smiled before I could identify the tickle of memory.
My stomach fluttered.
August in Massachusetts, the scent of fuel and hot grease in the winches. I’m climbing in the nets with my brother, and the twine reek of old dried fish if you get your face too close. I reach the top, where the Styrofoam floats squeak and shift beneath me. I stand, reaching my arms out in an unsteady pose. The wind blows my curly hair into my face. I am nine-years-old.
Summer isn’t as hot in New England, not on the water. The ocean exhales the slow, steady threat of fall and winter. As I stand on the top of the pile of netting and weights and floats, the boat shifts gently beneath me and huge gulls squawk a dissonant chorus.
I am nine-years-old.
When the pump handle clicked sharply against my palm, I jumped.
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