American Flag - Fiction

Sometimes a wind is content to wrap itself in the flag that is raised and lowered every day by my grandfather. At night he takes red stars off the strings, carefully collecting the corners of blue stripes in his thumb and forefinger. He folds across an imagined square, then hides the extra bit of rectangle inside to allow for the next step, making perfect right triangles. The material swings back and forth in halves that grow smaller and smaller until a thick handful of pillow-like nylon folds one last time into itself and is put to bed in an undisclosed location.

This daily ritual feels significant. Tanned faces down the row of white houses and pastel-rock covered lawns, nod as they watch him crank, pull, tie. All the bobbing heads seem to be a tribute to the flag and something bigger then their summer vacations along the Jersey shore.

I watch the flag from the side yard after lunch, where I sit along the steep inlet water way and throw rocks at a horseshoe crab lurking at the foot of the long latter to the sound three feet below. The wind whips hard, flapping the fabric over and over, holding the material straight, then swirling, then letting it go for a second before another gust pulls the stripes smooth again.

My brother watches with me for a minute before grabbling a life jacket and walking the dock to the sunfish sailboat, tied down as if it knows nothing of the wind. He climbs aboard saying, "Don't you wanta come?" I scold him and say, "You need to ask mom if its okay." He throws the rope that hold the boat to land and pushes the rudder down, steering towards the open ocean. I tell myself that he can sail alone because he looks like he is older than thirteen.

I see the big lumbering army crab hover at the ladder and I climb down the steps, dunk under, eyes closed, and grab the long triangle shaped tail. I pull the monster up and feel legs flail against my chest. The moment I get to the air, my arm muscles strain and I fight the possibility of it attacking. I have him and I hold tightly as he flits bits everywhere. I picture my dad at the beach when he tried to scare me by walking towards me holding one over his face like a mask, when I was six. Should I smash this one against the cement wall? Where are the eyes? Does he have anyone who will miss him? Is he really a mother, looking to feed babies? Would I cause her to abandon someone for my own freedom to walk tippy toe along the edge of the wall without it's body getting my feet? It is just shell and legs and nothing more, I decide, swinging it backwards as if to prepare a pendulum that will make it crash into it's death. The pole in my fist is sharp and the creature throws itself backwards on the out-swing, causing me to to lose my grip. It falls, dive bomb style against the water, back breaking the surface, splash squirting my eyes with salt. I close and scream in pain. When I test my sight, squinting to see light on the water, the bottom looks murky and the creature is gone.

The flag stops banging momentarily and falls limp against the pole. The sun sizzles my shoulders and nose and I lie stomach down on the rocks and watching the horizon for the boat to return.

*Note: The first line was taken from Capriccio In E Minor For Blowfly and String, by Paul Muldoon from Sugar House Review.