Butler Creek

Butler Creek, thick with thaw and purpose, rages through the foothills of the White Mountains like a boy's fast dreams. The water shines black in the pink gloaming. On the bank sits a box camper with one window. The beige vinyl of the camper is slathered, dark and heavy, with old winter. Cooper, taciturn woodsman, watches the creek through the window; watches the trout snap at the mosquitoes that flicker black dots above the water; watches the coils glow orange on the range; waits for the water to boil. Kettle screams. Porcelain mug, handle cracked like a fault line, WORLD'S BEST DAD, tilts under the spout. The spout funnels furnace over a spray of pine needles. The needles bow, then sit. A deadeye thought curls around Cooper's neck like a Siamese twin vying for attention. He sloughs it off once, eyes lost in steam. It comes back again and whispers in his ear, small boot toe-tapping on the thin tile. It won't pass easily. Cooper's hands, sticky with pitch, rattle like tired rocks at surge's edge. The mug teeters and the boil bites his wrist. He howls pain. The unwelcome thought retreats, and Cooper studies the pine needles melted into his skin. The tips of the needles are fanned like disparate memories, but roiled at the base like a nerve bundle. He grimaces, then kicks open the door.

Cooper, convoluted, forgets he lives in the space between kettle and creek, the space where kettle will and creek already did. He forgets when remembering: toe-tapping ghost. The pads of his feet trod cool moss bank side, then, crouching, his toes grip new purpose and soapstone. With a violent thrust, his hand shatters the surface. Layers of skin ripple like sheets in the current. The pine needles peel back, yielding. A rainbow trout, its scaly sheen lost on the sun long set behind the mountains, nibbles the fray of Cooper's flag. When satisfied, the trout moves on. Cooper watches it go. He cups his palm and pushes upstream. The water spurts and foams at his wrist, blurring the connection. In love with the struggle, and for too long knowing nothing else, he is hesitant to allow. Finally, he does. His hand moves downstream, tranquil. He lets it go. He lets it all go, remembering.

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words: Mel Bosworth (No More Hot Lunches)
image: Molly Sutton Kiefer, Minnesota (field work)

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another washing off: Claustrophobic Little Boy (#19)