Summer afternoon on the dock at the lake. The older kids are playing a word-guessing game with our mothers. At six, I am the youngest. My mother’s hint is that the answer rhymes with luck.” I say, “buck,” “duck,” “fuck.” My mother shouts, “Lynn! Go to your room and stay there! Now!” I am baffled. What? Why? I walk down the long dock, a victim of rhyme and ignorance. The sun is glaring off the lake. It is hotter outside than usual. And it is sweltering and stuffy in my room where I sit innocent, confused, and awash in humiliation.
Lynn Kozlowski’s writing has appeared in The Quarterly, The Malahat Review, and 50-Word Stories. He has a volume of short pieces, Historical Markers (Ravenna Books).