I Love You Also, I Promise fiction by
Sophia Quinto Henry fell into the river and it was your fault. This is what I’m thinking about: Rain plink-plunking off the bicycle, on its side in the dirt. Water beading on the shiny red metal; drops swelling and slipping to the ground. The back tire rotating slowly in the wind, squeaking twice with every interval. Snails inching out from under rocks to soak the summer rain up into their fat, spongy bodies; they are replenished by the same water that killed Henry. The snails are puzzled by the bicycle, a new landmark in their habitat. But, as with sprouting bushes and resurfaced stones, they will grow used to it and trace paths into the dirt around it. Vines will weave through its spokes until the tire can’t turn. Furry animals will gnaw at the seat until the polyester stuffing spills out and dissolves into the earth like it belongs there. The bike will become a part of the forest. It will exist for the trees and the dirt and the snails, not for Henry, because Henry threw it to the ground and raced to the riverbank, chasing you, and fell in. Sometimes I wish it was you who died. I will never tell you that; it’s a wicked, twisted thought. But. You are just a boy. Nine years old. You have pink cheeks and skinned knees. When you laugh, flowers bloom and the sun brightens and I wonder how anything on Earth could be so beautiful. You play in the forest with imaginary pirates and ghosts and dragons, you chase your friends through the trees shouting I’m gonna get you I’m gonna get you! until you all collapse in a giggly dogpile. You need your dolphin-shaped night light and your stuffed calico cat Albie smushed under your chin to fall asleep. You are loud and sweet and funny and alive. 50
