Kristy

My Marlboro Thermos
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I hated being dragged along on fishing trips, I hated being up at six a.m. on a Saturday during the summer, but I loved that thermos, the one bright, red and white spot in my seven-year-old existence.
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The Marlboro Thermos, filled with tap water and ice chipped thick from a block, held the scent of old plastic and every trip to the reservoir, the backwaters, lakes, ponds, and boat ramps where my family threw their lines out in hopes of great catches and memories. It was my uncle’s thermos and he let me carry it, so I’d drag it around with me like an old doll. It was my thermos on those days, and I would drink from it greedily, my small mouth covering the thick rectangle spout. I’d play with the spout, too, pulling it up and pushing it back down, the cool condensation on the lid revealing the dirty condition of my hands, brown water bubbles on my fingers, my momma warning that I would break the spout if I “kept on messing with it.”
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I was sitting Indian-style against the wall of the house boat, staring at the dock, the quiet shoosh of small waves made by motor boats swaying me. I gazed at the fish popping to the surface for air as I held the thermos in the space between my legs, flicking the spout subconsciously. Then suddenly Jenny, my cousin, was standing on the dock and I witnessed her make her move, but the boat was moving the waves toward and away from the water-logged wood of the dock, and she misjudged the distance. She sank down, arms flailing, then her head bounced back to the surface and she gasped for air. Uncle Bobby jumped in after her. I stood up, leaving the thermos on the deck in front of my Punky Brewster sneakers. My aunt came running from the side of the boat, my mom and grandmother from my left. In all the commotion, the thermos was knocked from its position in front of my feet and rolled off the deck. I gasped, no longer concerned for my cousin who had been pulled to safety and was at present crying; my one little red and white joy had been taken from me.
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“Momma,” I called hysterically.
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“It’s okay, Baby. Jenny’s fine.”
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“My drink!” I cried, pointing out into the water unable to find the words to describe my loss.
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“Oh,” she responded, trying to contain her amusement, her arm around my shoulder, “It’s alright, I brought some drinks. You want a Sprite?”
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I shook my head “no,” my lower lip trembling at the onset of tears.
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I watched, helpless to save my one pleasure as it floated out and traveled silently under the darkened dock into the light on the other side, tears swelling in my tired eyes as the red and white thermos bobbed up and down like a cork with a nibbling fish on the line.
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I left the deck to sit at the little yellow table in the kitchen where the scent of stale backwater was sucked into every corner. I opened a box of saltine crackers and a can of Prairie Belt smoked sausage and stared at the little boy on the label, wondering if maybe he knew how long this day would now be.