The Correspondent

by Virginia Evans

fifteen feet away and that he was standing there so high. I heard him call out to me, thinking he was there at the end of the dock, or not really thinking of him at all, Theodore, I was irritated with him, and he said, WATCH. Watch me. Watch my dive, Mom. I wish I could remember, but here is where things go murky. I lose the trail in my memory, but one thing is clear, Theodore. Without looking up, I said, JUST GO, COLT. JUMP! It was the nickname I used for him. We were obsessed with the horse races, had loved to watch the horse races together. Secretariat had won the Triple Crown just the month earlier, and it was how I called Gilbert, my child, swift as a colt. Sometimes I imagine it, his body folded against the summer sky, then stretching out, then down into the lake. Hands arms head body legs pointed feet toes toenails. I didn’t see it, but I imagine it. There was a shelf there where he dove in. His neck broke and he didn’t come up, Theodore. It took me a few seconds to register the lack of him. That’s how Gilbert died, and I’m sorry. I am so very, very sorry. I’m going to put the pen down for a bit.