Something In The Way

The fog was a blanket covering the black skin of the river. If he stayed perfectly still, ignoring the sounds of birds and insects and the occasional concrete splashing into the water as it crumbled from the ancient bridge above him, Suby could hear the soft hiss of the water vapor in the air. A little boy living at the edge of the river, directly under a decaying bridge, Suby remembered his father telling him that fog was water. But it was too long ago and Suby couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea anymore.


On mornings like this, he liked to lie awake and listen. There was something in the way the fog and the river talked to each other—it was how he talked to his father these days. He wondered which of the fog and the river was the father and which was the son. He wondered if they talked about the same things.


As much as he liked to lie in his flotsam and jetsam hovel, listening, Suby knew he didn’t have the luxury of time. The fog brought fish to the surface, which meant he had lines to check and much else to do. It wasn’t fair he’d have to live all on his own his father had said, but there was no use crying about it either.


Suby thought back to the day his parents left. They’d prepared him. He was ready they said. They promised to come back if they found a cure.