Jenifer Browne Lawrence
The Reservoir
Valdez,
1966
My brother and I dragged sticks along its circumference,
rubbed
our hands into its rusted curves and chased up and down the
beach, threatening to turn each other orange. We found an
opening
at the base where a welded seam had split. Outside was summer,
but inside-the end of November. Diesel residue gagged us as we
stood, trying to see through darkness. I knew better than to
ask
him to hold my hand.
Opposite the hole, a ladder ran to the top, a square hint of
sky
lighting its rails. Working our way around, we shivered and
shouted hello
until my brother threw
shit across the emptiness, and
shit came
floating back. We dragged our palms along the wall,
made it to the ladder. He climbed. I
cried. He said, Shut up
and
jumped from a rung higher than my head.
He crossed the circle, wiggled through the seam. The bright
hole
disappeared. I scraped along the metal arc, knees chafing on
the
gritty floor. I reached something soft and pushed, landed
outside
on my brother's jacket. I sucked in clean air, sat there,
blinking at
the blood, the oily rust coating my hands and knees.
He stood at the shore, skipped rocks across the water. I ran,
shoved
him hard as I could. He didn't lose his balance, didn't even
turn
around to say it:
Baby.
—Jenifer Browne Lawrence
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