The Drowned Boy
Just turned two, I play in the sandbox beside my four-year-old brother, my diaper already sodden under its plastic bloomer. I’ve discovered with much pleasure that if I pour sand in my hair, I can scratch it out, which I find ruminative and satisfying.
My mother wears turquoise pedal pushers with a checkered scarf under her chin. Nobody is expected, so she hasn’t applied her face. Pardon her, but she’s…