By Ariel M. Goldenthal
I am always three in your memory. We sit on your faded leather couch, avoiding the pee-stain that three-dogs-ago Shadow left, and I see you looking through my adult skin. You imagine me skipping around your Florida condo with a paintbrush, dripping goldenrod along the edges of the shag carpet. You watch as I dip my toes into the December-iced ocean and shrill as the waves wrap my knees. I run along the water, sinking into the heavy sand, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot catch me.
Ariel M. Goldenthal lives in Washington, D.C. and teaches students how their college academic writing can be creative. Her writing has appeared in or is forthcoming from Emerge Literary Journal, Fiction Southeast, and Grace & Gravity Vol. VIII. You can find more of her work at arielgoldenthal.com/
MoonPark Review 