Angel of the Void (five-second fall)

(Five)

If you're listening to this, congratulations, you're listening to a dead person.Remember when you tucked me into bed and told me that storyyou were fishing for barramundi in billabongs up northTwo hours southeast of Darwin: heaven on earthyou'd been fishing all morning, pulling in mangrove jack and threadfinbut you wanted the king of freshwaterthe barramundi.You'd been sitting on the tinny all daySweating more water than the river held itselfburning beneath the sun, delirious in the heat and humiditylight was fallingbut you had nothing to show for a long day's laborso you tied on your favorite popperand on the last cast, as soon as the popper hit the surfaceyou blinked and there was a wave of waterA mini tsunamiline peeled and peeled, racing off the spoolfive hours later, you brought her ina meter plus, scales like diamonds.I'll never forget you telling me about this fat, silver fishI'll never forget your fat, silver eyes.You called her Mary—after the riverbut you told me something elsesomething else about barrathey start off as males when they're youngand when they're older they become femalesall they need for change is seawater.And I asked you: How? How can that happen?And you replied: An act of wonder. God's power.

________

Gab wakes before light. The faint print of moon looms beyond the blinds. His bloodshot eyes flicker, focusing on the shadow staring back at him. Sun-singed skin dangles off his neck. Crow's feet crease the corners of his eyes. Wrinkles cut across his forehead. He cracks the window and feels the morning breeze, soft, salted, rise in the room.

Where is it? Gab rolls over. He moves the pencil and crushed book from under his head. Where? His hand gropes the blankets. There. He plucks the woolen scarf hidden between the bed and the wall. Miriam's favorite, knitted during that bastard winter.

Gab pulls the scarf to his face. Though her perfume is fading, cedar and sandalwood and carnation fill him with each breath. He lies there, body still in the dark, listening to his sighs, harsh and heavy, break the predawn hush. He taps the touch lamp on the bedside table, eyes stinging in the wan light. Hanging from five-pound fishing line, driftwood and sea glass and cockleshells sway in the corner of the room, their shadows pluming across the pale-blue walls. He clears a tear off his cheek with the scarf.

Darting between light and dark, Gab's eyes ride the merry-go-round mobile.

(Four)

After you tucked me in and told me about the barraI closed my eyes and whisperedGod, pleasebody rocking with the weight of each wordFix menight after night after night I tried butnothing.No matter how hard we tried to make it worklies.When I helped you cut wood or pull weeds in the backyardyou told me how strong I wasLittle Herculesforget HerculesI was Iphis.You told me to cut my hair and whenever I cried I had to beTough as nails.You told me to walk in the wake of the LordRemember Deuteronomy 22:5?You were still my parents; I was still your childall that ever changeda name, a pronoun, a nounwords, letterssquiggles on the page, voice in the air all it had to be.I was still your bloodI was still your flesh.

________

Yawning, Gab scratches a match and lights the stove. As the kettle's croon lines the still dark, he scoops five tablespoons of tea into the pot. Nice and extra strong. He pours the Earl Grey into a tiny teacup. Dandelion petals dance around the ceramic, while two birds fly above—the wings of one fading near the handle. How large her hands seemed holding it.

Gab hums to himself and cranks open the fly screen...