William Tell Overture

As a child, I did not understand classical music,

socks, or taxes. The symphony always lulled me

into sleep and my father had to wake me,

gently nudging my elbow so I would sit

up in the soft velvet chairs.

After the shows, we would go out on the river,

where the air wrapped

its chilly arms around us and he would spin me

around, dancing to music that was no longer

playing. I was untouchable in my stiff 

pink dress, with warmth radiating 

from my candied pecans. Elegance is

your eighth birthday. The hum of the violins.

My father has always held my hand, 

despite the many times I would pull away. 

There was always something else, something gleaming

just across the fence, and although his arms were big

they were not long enough for me

to hold onto. Hand-in-hand turned into

an arms-length away which became stay

within eyesight which, like all rules, evaporated.

William Tell Overture begins with a rhapsody.

My father does not know 

me like he used to. Last month, he drove us out

to a lake infested with mosquitos

that sunk into my flesh before I even left the car.

My legs dangled

off the dock, splinters of wood fluttering

around my thighs.

Neither of us knew much

about fishing, but for some reason

he thought we should take this opportunity

to learn. Holding

the rod loosely, I told him 

I saw no point in hurting 

something we did not need to hurt. 

He did not

respond. Stilted summer air 

coated my shoulders and I

waited. I felt a tug and

a cacophony rose up

from behind me as I followed my father’s

instructions and reeled the

line in. I did not want this and 

I screamed. I saw the hook piercing

the fish through the mouth; its eye was filled 

with either desperation or resignation, I have

not yet decided.