By Zach Keali’i
The cottonwood tree seeds collect upon the emerald grass like the first snowfall while I watch my tiny daughter kick a soccer ball toward my feet. As the soccer ball spins, I picture the earth rotating on its axis and revolving around the scorching sun. Years rush by, my daughter’s limbs grow longer, and my hairline recedes like an ocean wave after it’s crashed. I hold her hand at the bus stop on her first day of school and my stomach sinks deeper than the lithosphere. What if the other kids make fun of the ears she inherited from me? What if she falls behind in class and can’t catch up? Or what if—no, I won’t even think about it. Speed ahead to when she takes her driver’s license exam. She’ll botch the parallel parking part, and I’ll secretly be relieved. She’ll pass the exam the second time around, and I’ll permanently be terrified every minute she’s on the road. She’ll bring her first boyfriend or girlfriend over for dinner and I’ll accidentally embarrass her by overcooking the mashed potatoes and talking about her stuffed rhinoceros, Mr. Blue. She’ll say she’ll never speak to me again. She’ll experience her first heartbreak, and I’ll struggle to tell her that she’s going to get over it and that high school relationships are things you barely even remember when you get older. She’ll hear me and her mother get into a heated argument for the first time, and she’ll realize that marriage isn’t always as sweet as the strawberries we used to pick together. She’ll apply for her first job and freeze up during the interview, just like I did during my first interview, and then the shadow that is failure will fuse itself to her dreams. She’ll go away to college and experience her first bout of major depression just like I did. She’ll have doubts about her future and scrutinize every decision she makes. She’ll get lost in a sandstorm of her own thoughts. She’ll reflect upon her own reflection. She’ll ponder her own existence. Just like me. Just like . . . a human. The soccer ball reaches my feet. I halt it with my heel, perform a gawky dance in which I twirl around in a circle waving my arms, then kick the ball back to her. She laughs so hard that the birds have to raise their voices. Her eyes are bright stars. The sky feels a little less heavy when I see her smile. She chases after the ball and the earth continues its orbit.
Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in The MacGuffin, Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Lunch Ticket, Raritan Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, Little Patuxent Review, Flash Frog, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
