I moaned again about writing. We crossed into the park and he was saying it will be OK and I was saying I don’t know. A woman and baby sat at the fountain in the park. He said, why don’t you start over? I said, I already have a story. I don’t need a new one. The woman glanced around and removed the baby’s shirt. She dipped her hand into the silvery pool as water shot from the mouth of the ocean god above. Her baby waved his naked arms, and she lifted her hand from the pool. What rose from the water was the oldest vessel on earth, a cup pressed together by the hands of women thousands of years before. Her terracotta skin poured the cool liquid onto her baby, as if upon turned soil. Poseidon, the sentry carved into white stone, held his trident above. His judgment came forth in waves. I was caught, unequivocally caught, in a fear I could not articulate. I forgot myself. He looked at me, not a trace of human shame in his eyes, “There’s your story right there.”

– Annie Raab