Ground zero

Abstract

It's a fine day, a fine day and the woman and her son are striding out across the park, are heading for the cliffs, for the blue of the ocean. See how quickly they move. How tall the woman is, how long her legs. She's walking quickly not because she's in a hurry, but because she can, this is how she likes to walk. And her son, he's only a child, five or maybe six, tall for his age, he's working hard, almost running to keep up with his mother. But he likes to run, anyone can see that, watch the way he dashes past her then trots back, grinning and panting, rounding her up like a dog. They're alike, this mother and her son. Note the resemblance as they power across the green: both long-limbed and golden, their bright eyes and easy smiles. See how confident they are--arms swinging, heads held high--and how comfortable they seem together, how content. As she walks the woman is thinking, oh, not about anything in particular, just vague images, inconsequential and fleeting. She is thinking: I hope Kevin's not late for dinner tonight. An early night. She is thinking: Must call Mum. Two weeks. She'll be edgy. She is thinking: Oh, spring! The afternoon sun. The breeze. The watermelon smell of the sea! She is thinking: What it is to be here! What luck! And her boy? He's running hard uphill, not a dog now, but a plane. He's rocketing along with his arms out through long grass that swishes against his knees. He's weaving in and out, narrowly missing trees, a bin. He's screwing up his eyes against the sun, against the rushing wind of his speed. He's going all the way up and at the top he's ready--has found his target. He's taking aim, counting down. Three, two, one, zero. Bombs away. He's making that sound that boys make: a screeching sort of whistle that descends then explodes, reverberates. Ground zero.