Bivalvia

My father claimed he could predict the next tsunami by the number of mussels that sprouted from his fishing boat. He dragged the boat to shore and kneeled on the rocks to count. This was his ritual. After he announced we were safe, I sliced open a mussel with my nail and ate. He told me I was disgusting and sent me home. At night, I watched him in the glow of the TV. He spat at the weatherman’s predictions and changed the channel. Sometimes he’d laugh while watching TV, sometimes he’d cry. When we laughed we sounded the same.

 

 

Sagar Nair is from Sydney, Australia. His work is published in Vol. 1 Brooklyn, The Shore Poetry, The Suburban Review, and elsewhere.

Photo Credit: Ken-Ichi Ueda