The water makes that sound it makes.
My sister is the one that paddles.
I’m only five.
It starts to rain, and my mom tells us to come in.
We are on the sea, though.
Or at least on a pond that feels like it.
On the open ocean, we are free.
Even though the pond is tiny.
Sometimes it feels that way.
Like everyone in the world is against you,
playing something that wasn’t even a game to begin with.
Maybe it just is like this when you’re the loser.
Our boat was always a little slower than the rest.
And so here I’ll sit, in my
upper-middle class mansion,
complaining about how
the boat I was in when
I was five was too slow.
And it was only like that because
It was being rowed by a fourth grader.
I don’t mean to complain, you know?
I’m only saying this because it’s hard to
remember freedom like that when