far

Prose

Moonshine Like Alligator Eyes

D Pinero-Leon
issue four

Papi leads me through the backyard, swinging the flashlight across the grass. He left a tool in the shed by the lake, so we’re walking over, picking our way through the yard. It’s dark. Sun gone, moon rising, stars shattered above us like a broken bottle, too faint to light the way. Another sweep of the flashlight, and Papi slurs, do you know why I’m doing this? I don’t. I just follow his steps, watch the crooked crescents his boots make in the dirt, the far edge of the lake ahead of us, glittering glass under the moon. When you shine a light, he says, alligator eyes glow in the dark. I think of the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling of my bedroom. Not in this house, in Mami’s. Two hours away and far from this dark lake, and the boat shed, the rusting tools, the smell of metal, Papi’s heavy footfalls. He leads me to the shed, still sweeping the flashlight, cradled loose in his fisted palm. I think he forgot I’m scared of alligators. Hurry up, Papi says, don’t fall behind. It’s hard to see them in the dark. Then he laughs, keeps walking, and I’m not sure he forgot after all. Behind him I trip, skittering over dirt. There’s no flashlight guiding me.