Child on the Marsh

I worked the river’s slick banks, grabblingin mud holes underneath tree roots.You’d think it would be dangerous,but I never came up with a cooteror cottonmouth hung on my fingertips.Occasionally, though, I leapt upright,my fingers hooked throughof a mudcat. And then I thrilledthe thrill my father felt when heburst home from fishing, drunk, and yelled,well before dawn, “Wake up! Come here!”He tossed some fatwood on the fireand flames raged, spat and flickered. He helda four-foot mudcat. “I caught it!”he yelled. “I caught this monster!” At first,dream-dazed, I thought it was somethinghe’d saved us from. By firelight, the fishgleamed wickedly. But Father laughedand hugged me hard, pressing my headagainst his coat, which stank, and glitteredwhere dried scales caught the light. For breakfast,he fried enormous chunks of fish,the whole house glorious for dayswith their rich stink. One scale stuck to my face,and as we ate he blinked, untilhe understood what made me glitter.He laughed, reached over, flicked the staroff of my face. That’s how I felt—that wild! — when I jerked struggling fishout of the mud and held them up,long muscles shuddering on my fingers.Once, grabbling, I got lost. I traced