Candor

“Remember Mom’s fishcakes?” I ask. The spicy-sweet taste is on my tongue. She put cinnamon in them, and cayenne pepper. They were delicious.
Dad gives me a sharp look. I’ve been stupid. “The past is behind us.”
It’s what he always says when I bring up things like that. And I know what to say back. It slides out so easily. “We must focus on the future.”
“Good man.” Dad’s smile looks satisfied. I feel a little safer.
But it’s not easy to stuff away memories. I remember how the orange life vests pressed against our chins. They smelled like wet dirt. Dad always checked the buckles before he untied the boat.
“Hot today,” Dad says. “They’ll be deep.”
“This is nice,” I say. Because it kind of is. If I forget it’s just for show. Pretend Sherman and Nia and orange graffiti never happened. There’s nothing to be afraid of, if that were true.
“People want something when they see someone else using it. Remember that.” Dad casts his line. It goes so far, it looks like it’s halfway across the pond.
“Everybody wants to be part of the crowd,” I say.