a memory I have carried…
…
I still see him
when I think of that summer…
a small boy
with a fishing pole bigger than his arms…
walking the neighborhood
like he belonged to no one… and everyone at the same time…
I didn’t know then
that some children are already alone
before anything bad ever happens…
…
that summer hung over us like syrup…
slow…
impossible to escape…
he was always there on those endless days…
quiet…
never saying a word…
just giggling
smiling a lot…
his face dirty…
always alone…
he moved like a question mark…
drifting through the neighborhood…
always in spaces kids that age
weren’t usually allowed to be
by themselves…
something in me felt off about it…
but I ignored it…
because kids do that…
I told myself…
that’s what summers do…
scattering children
like dandelion fluff…
at first.. I thought
a grown-up had to be nearby…
surely one would come for him…
but they never did…
…
until that one day…
…
That summer—
I was staying at my aunt’s…
with my cousin…
a place always full of noise
and boys
and bikes
and long days…
I was 12…
there were a lot of us my age…
we all fished…
it was just what you did…
you grabbed a pole
walked
until the water showed up…
the lake sat in the neighborhood
like it belonged to us…
and on those days…
it did…
we went there laughing…
competing…
pretending we knew what we were doing…
none of us thought twice about it…
back then…
the water…
was just water…
…
we walked with our poles dragging behind us…
dust lifting
settling again…
no hurry…
no reason to hurry…
the neighborhood felt stretched out that afternoon…
like the distance between things had grown…
it felt like the world
was holding its breath…
I remember thinking
the day was taking its time…
not knowing
why that made me uneasy…
…
I saw him…
his quiet smile…
there by the water’s edge…
he was fishing…
by himself…
like always…
his name was
little Jerry
he was
5
…
we got bored of fishing the way kids do…
lines reeled in…
poles dropped in the dirt…
someone said swimming…
and that was enough…
we ran to a neighbor’s house
down the street…
his mom was outside…
she cut a watermelon open
on the porch for us…
red juice down our wrists…
seeds stuck to our fingers…
laughing…
sticky…
unknowing…
the last normal thing…
…
the air tasted like sugar and sun—
and I remember thinking
I’d never seen a red
brighter than that watermelon…
when we walked back toward the lake…
the day was gone…
the air was torn open…
like something holy…
I heard a woman screaming
before I saw her…
…
oh no… my baby…
oh no… my baby…
…
again and again…
like the words were all she had left…
someone’s radio was playing
on a distant porch…
bright
against the screams…
my aunt was there…
standing still…
her face not hers anymore…
people were running…
shoes left behind…
voices everywhere…
and without anyone telling us…
we went into the water…
all of us…
spreading out…
hands down…
feet searching the bottom…
the water smelled like mud and metal…
it was no longer just water…
…
I stood beside my aunt…
searching…
then her voice split through everything—
in a tone I had never heard before…
…
oh my God…
here he is…
I have him…
…
I’ll never forget seeing him come up
from beneath the surface…
the water ran off him
like silver threads…
with him in her arms—
she rushed to shore…
he just laid there… still…
quiet…
fear was on the air—
CPR…
chest compressions…
pressing…
breathing…
pressing…
breathing…
the images…
stacked on each other…
in my mind…
everyone was praying
when the ambulance arrived…
they took him away…
still working…
still trying…
…
and so…
…
he wouldn’t make it that day—
…
he died in the back of the ambulance
on the way to the hospital…
…
his fishing pole…
at my feet…
…
the hook…
still baited…
…
the water went still again…
Matthew 19:14
Let the little children come to me… for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these…
© 2026 Bryan Loia Hudson. All rights reserved.
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Heart of Loia `'.,°~ 