Four Years Old, Jane Berger Herschlag (June 2026)

 

Four Years Old

With his claw-arm he caught
my wrist, dragged me to the water,
my heels dug shallow ruts
to the sand.
He walked deeper
in. Ribs cinched against his torso, lids scrunched,
mucoused face pressed
against his chest, mouth pinched tight
to dam the flood, I hung
surfboard stiff.
Inhaling
thrashing waves, I hiccoughed,
coughed foam.
Flooding, flooding.
Then, as if he’d tamed a beast—
chin lifted, Father turned, slowly bobbed
to shore, dropped me
like a hefty suitcase.
Head drooped forward, wobbling,
I stepped around plaid
and striped blankets with bathers,
stared hard at grains of sand that shifted
between my toes,
scouring memory. I reached Mother talking with
my sisters. My face
must have been illegible
as a shell, I sat, wheezed. Later,
in slow motion I ventured to the edge
of spent waves, filled my pink pail
with sand; its moist weight pulled
my right arm long. Softly I spoke
to my two sisters about sand pies,
castles, and wheezed. How often
had I been caught? For each time
I was dropped, then forgot,
and was brave enough to play,
I’ll pin gold stars to her hair,
the girl I was.