Amelia Borawski

American River

There is a boy who plays on the shores of a river.

It is an American river, named after a Native tribe, with a name that is long and butchered in pronunciation past the point of recognition. The boy could not tell us the name of the river. He cannot comprehend its history, the violence of its rapids or the intense burn of the waters when the sun beats them down in the summer. 

The boy was sick earlier that morning: a nasty cough, flushed cheeks, sweaty palms. 

“The fever,” his mother whispered.

“It’s natural for boys his age,” his father spat. His father whistled, “come here boy.” And the boy came.

His sister came too, swaying high on her toes over the ditches in the dirt floor. She clasped the heavy fabric of her dress in the curves of her fingers, moving like water toward the men. The rim of her skirt swept delicately over the ground as she drifted by.

Once, the boy and his sister played together on the riverside. Their shrieks filled the air, mingling with the keens of the eagles and crows that lived in the woods nearby. Now, the boy would never play with his sister. She is prim, she is proper, she is refined. A lady who, when the frost sets in early and whatever crops are viable need to be yanked from the hardened ground, sobs on her bare knees and pulls, pulls, pulls at their roots alongside the boy’s father. 

The boy’s mother murmured, “he can’t stay home--”

“He’ll infect the whole congregation,” the boy’s father declared. “We’ll go without him.”

And so the boy was left home alone, rosy cheeked and glassy eyed. His mother’s hand brushed across his forehead as she told him goodbye.

As soon as the cabin is quiet, the boy throws all of his might against the hard wooden door and shoves.

Freedom.

He sprints barefoot through the grassy hills, across the swath of farmland the women call ours and the father calls his. The air is wonderfully cool; it slaps against his face and ankles, pushing against his tiny form as he runs into nature.

Soon, he is mimicking the stories of his family. His uncles told him once of the battle that occurred on this very river, not long ago at all. It was a storm of gray snow and blue ice, of faded fabric colors and impassioned mustaches on horseback. The boy hurls rocks at the imaginary lines of soldiers on the other side of the river. His feet sink into the sandy shore as the tide runs up his leg. On the other side of the river, the other young soldier boys are experiencing the same thing.

Water is crawling up the boy’s legs, then water is bombing the land around him as he splashes around in the shallows, dodging the whizzing bullets of his enemies across the shore.

“See this,” his grandfather told him another time. “A coin from my father’s time in the war. Survived the British bombardment.”

The boy peeked over his grandfather’s shoulder, ogling the coin with wide eyes.

“Want to see a magic trick . . .?” And with great effort, the boy’s grandfather bent down and rolled the coin on its edge across the little cabin. It tipped over gently, running circles in the dirt until it was toppled by its own weight.

The boy plays this out too, leaping in and out of the icy currents, trying to recreate the movement of the coin. The backs of his legs scream as he reaches down to touch his toes, trying to become the same shape as the little scrap of junk metal that survived the Second War of Independence. The sky is an endless stretch of blue. 

The boy plays pirate. He clings to the mossy rocks on the shore, moving farther and farther out. Their surface is like a damp, green blanket, gentle and welcoming. Some moss is a pillow, protecting the boy’s head from the sharp edges of nature. Other moss is scraped crudely from its home by overgrown fingernails that rip and tug at what the boy thinks is nature’s harmless creation. 

The currents yank the boy’s legs out from underneath him. His head rests on rocks.

What fun the boy is having. His giggle is not a sound that exists in the world. He laughs by himself, for the pleasure of the crisp air, and does not mind that no one hears him. 

He chucks moss into the air. They are cannonballs, and the pebbles mixed into them are shrapnel and wood from the enemy ship that splintered on impact. 

The boy sees his sister first. Her face is . . . oh but wait, the boy cannot make it out. She is too far away. She is running. She keeps falling over her skirt, and in a desperate bid to reach him, she releases her church hat into the waning sun and hikes the layers of her dress up to the top of her thighs. She is a moving noiseless mouth with crazy hair.

Then his mother comes. What a strange thing, we notice at the same time as the boy. He is now in the middle of the river, looking at the riverbank he once thought of as his front lines. Small circles of moss bob up and down around him. Water buoys the boy up. Water pulls back. He is holding rock. He is holding onto moss.

A woman’s hand reaches out across the waters. It is blistered and small. The boy hesitates. There are two fat clumps of soft green in his hands. Then the currents make the boy fly in the other direction, farther and farther away from the two doll-like figures receding into the horizon.

His cheeks flush. The boy’s fever is strong. Above him are knives of sunlight that cut through the murky blue.

The daughter and mother sit by the riverbank. Dirty water rushes past their bare ankles. We know that they tell different stories than the men. If they were ever to tell a story about a coin, we know that it would not end with the cheap thrill of a balancing act, but with an exploration of the razor thin edges of metal.

There is a boy who plays on the shores of a river. Look! He calls. I have more freedom than you.

Amelia Borawski is a full-time student from Boston, Massachusetts. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading and learning new languages. This past year, a speech she wrote was recognized on the national level by the Veterans of Foreign Wars. Amelia also has an interest in journalism; she has published stories for The Reading Chronicle and has contributing reporter credits at The Harvard Crimson. Most recently, she was awarded The Letter Review Prize for Short Fiction for her short story “The Hollows of Maine.”

Mentor: Shraya Singh