CruciformMe

It’s late afternoon at the lake. The turtles are moving closer to shore. The surface of the water is undisturbed, an expance of smooth, gray slate. Most of the children in my neighborhood are called home for supper by their mothers. They open the back doors, wipe their hands on their aprons and yell, “Willie!” or “Joe!” or “Ray!” Either that or they use the bell, bolted to the doorframe and loud enough to start the dogs barking in backyards all along the street. But I was always called home by my father, and he didn’t do it in the customary way. He walked down the alley all the way to the lake. If I was close, I could hear his shoes on the gravel before he came into sight. If I was far, I would see him across the surface of the water, emerging out of shadows and into the gray light. He would stand with his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker while he looked for me. This is how he got me to come home. He always came to the place where I was before he called my name.