My Cardboard Balcony

Canal by Belinda Roddie We used sticks as swords and played on the edge of the canal, where the salt started staining our feet, and we dipped our fingers into the cold ocean's broth to sate our hot emotions. One of us found a piece of loose kelp and wore it as a belt, while another smeared algae on his chest and said that he was finally becoming a man. We all declared ourselves kings and queens of the sea, waiting for Poseidon to wag his finger at us in distaste and point to his trident as a reminder of his three-pronged position on his Pacific throne.

The dusk sank into our fingers like dark, sticky honey, extracted straight from the waxy comb that shone on the platter like a crater in the moon above our heads. With the natural satellite hovering like a disc, we settled down for dinner and drinks on the porch, the lemonade as cold as the gazpacho and the bread as crispy and warm as the air. I passed around the jug merrily, listening with every last bit of my energy to my great-uncle's newest story.