Daughter of Poseidon

"Look, it's following me again!" Something like delight and desperation clips the wings off of my words as I move down the length of the dim, earth-colored aquarium.

"Wow, it is!" Asiah looks at me in awe. "It remembers you from last time."

I glance back at the large bluegill making its graceful approach, eyeing me thoughtfully from behind the thick glass. I move away, to the very end of the massive tank. It stops when it reaches me, a foot away from my wide eyes.

"It's probably just hungry," I say quickly, my gaze lingering on the aquatic animal's translucent fins and shimmering belly. But why is it only following me, then? And how does it remember me from the last time I was here?

My friends gradually lose interest in me and my fishy friend and find their way to the stuffed game display and giant, plastic catfish tunnel leading back to the main hall.

I stall, heartbeats filling the space between my breaths. Are you a messenger from Poseidon? I ask it silently. Is he claiming me? The fish slowly swims back and forth in front of me. I lay my hand against the glass. "I remember you, too," I whisper, and run to catch up.

***

I want to be Percy Jackson. Not only for the idea of a 12-year-old becoming a butt-kicking, monster-slaying badass but because I, like the son of Poseidon, grew up with a single mom, wondering where my father was, and then, why he didn't choose me. Besides, his name is Percy Jackson... my name is Prairie Johnson. Same, same, but different. And I'm 12 too!

Reality welcomes me home as I burst out into the cool, Autumn air, heavy doors slowly swinging closed behind me. My friends and I near the oxbow and clambers over the bridge. Trees sway softly, releasing what remains of summer to the wind.

I am with them in body, but my mind begins to drift, sailing over the smooth water, into a world where my hands have powers beyond my imagining, and this widening hole in my chest is filled with something whole: an explanation.

I want to know why.

I refocus, on the river, narrowing my eyes, searching. I am always searching for something. Because something always seems to be missing.

I think of Mary's dad. And Baz's. Jackson's. Eihilin's. When did I start to notice them? When did that longing, that curiosity slice me open?

I am not at Sertoma Park anymore. No, I am flying through the past, running up the stairs through the short and musty hall of my apartment, my bare feet scraping its rough carpet, to the sleek, shiney chest full of treasures for me. I fumble with the key and open the mailbox belonging to apartment number 3.

To: Prairie Johnson

From: Erick Gonzales

I am smiling, smiling, like my face is trying to crack like an egg. My dad, my dad, my dad.

My dad sends me postcards from Germany, Spain, England and other countries I cannot yet fathom.

My dad is like Brown Santa. If Brown Santa traveled the world for the military. He sends me packages like the one in my hands now. For Christmas, and my birthday... and sometimes no apparent reason at all.

I race downstairs past Sam, my younger sibling, trying to ignore the pain behind their pink cheeks, failing at pretending I do not understand, cannot understand their disconnection from their father. At least mine, however distant, sends me letters and treasures I can fold into the space where physical love might have blossomed.

When my dad is not traveling, he spends his mysterious days in central North Carolina with his wife and 3, soon to be 4 children. My siblings. My family that is not my family that is my family.

A memory of Makayla's long, blond hair and wild impulses and Olivia's bobbing toddler head resurfases, a far cry from who I assume they are now. Do they remember what I look liked then? I haven't even met the youngest, Samara, yet.

'I love you,

'Dad,' he signs the postcards and letters, giving me paper in place of kisses and goodnights. How am I supposed to believe him? How does he even know what kind of daughter he loves?

I snap back into my 12-year-old self as we walk back to the playground, where our parents are waiting for us... where my mom and only my mom is waiting for me.

No, he doesn't know me. He doesn't know these average palms juxtaposed with short fingers, held wide open to the leaves reaching out to me from the treeline as I pass by. He doesn't know this weirdly brown head of hair that came from 2 very black-haired people. He doesn't know these callused feet, quick to race anyone. He doesn't know what books I have merged my life essence with, which characters I want to become.

My real dad would know all of these things. And he does. Because he has been watching me all along.

I pull my face up to the heavens and breathe deeply. All of the Greek God's are here for me.

***

I linger outside after the ride home, kicking at the craggy rubble in the parking lot by my apartment. My stomach tingles with an electricity. Something is going to happen. Maybe Poseidon is finally going to claim me.

I don't like the ocean, though. I decide this after spending last spring in Hawaii with my mom and Sam terribly seasick as we searched for dolphin pods. Though I am mostly immune to puking (I had a multi-year strike going until a particularly disgusting car ride in January), I find myself incurably motion sick in most vehicular transportation devices, boats included. Still, I'm positive that I am the daughter of Poseidon.

I stop suddenly and trace the edges of a puddle with my gaze, landing firmly on the center of the surface, made inky by the erroded pavement ensconcing it.

I feel tears stinging the backs of my eyes, announcing a momentous ocurrance.

"I choose you!" I breathe, thrusting out my hand over the water. My body pulses with certainty, even as I know that I am practicing insanity.

Nothing. No massive, Godly eruption. No earthquake. Not a drop of water stirs at my command on Jefferson Street.

I sigh and drop my arm.

***

My surefire belief in my Olympian father gradually disintigrates after that moment, but my confusion only builds and bourgeons, ripening into anger over time. The unknowns of his decisions resting nearby, a sharp stone in my pocket.

And then I am 14 and anxiety fights the lining of my stomach as I say, "My dad is going to visit me for the first time in four years."

My friend Jessie's eyes widen and then soften.

I nod seriously. "He's not in jail or anything," I reassure her, suddenly nervous at what she might assume.

"How do you feel about seeing him?" She asks.

"I..." I swallow, avoiding her sweet tenderness. I don't remember how I replied to that question. I know what I am feeling, but suddenly words are not the right tools to construct the kaleidoscope of my emotions.

Seeing him will be like meeting a stranger I have met before: I still don't think I know who he is, but I know that much about him. I know that he is an artist and very muscular. I know that he is from Nicaragua, like the rest of his family, my family. I know that his hair is coal-black and stick-straight, like mine. I know our eyes were carved of the same shade and shape in this universe. I know that he will tell me he loves me because that is what he says in his letters. That is what he wants me to believe. That is what I want to believe.

After my volunteer shift is over, I walk curiously to the aquarium, suddenly remembering the last time I was here before I became a volunteer.

When I was the daughter of Poseidon.

I look for that large bluegill that I was so enamored with years ago. There. It shifts listlessly around the tank. I approach, holding my breath.

Nothing. I step back and slide to the other end of the enclosure. No reaction from my old friend.

I smile. I suppose you are no Godly messenger. I suppose I will remain unclaimed, unknown, uncharted by the angular chisel of a father's parenting. And maybe I am better off for it.

Perhaps I will look into the eyes and soul of the masculine half that made me and inquire. Or not. I'm not really sure what my questions are.

Maybe I will learn of his adventures, of his Godly deeds on Mount Olympus, of his great pantheon of comrades, of this mysterious man that pushed my imagination to its edge.

I cock my head at the fish. Perhaps you were just hungry; and perhaps, I am the daughter of Poseidon.