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  • Keara Shea

Little Blue Fish

As it swings in the air—attached to my hook at the end of my line, begging for water—I grasp it. I begin to examine it and stumble upon a second hole. Another hole from another hook, at the end of a different line, connecting to a different person. Someone who joyfully looked up to his mom when he felt the first tug. Someone whose best friend cheered him on as he pulled it closer. Someone whose dad put him on his shoulders to celebrate, then posing for a picture before letting it go. And as I stand there alone, I disconnect it from my line while letting out a big smile because no one else may be proud of me, but I am.

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