
All the Avett girls are strong swimmers. In a county of cattle ropers and turkey shooters, this is what we're known for. There's nothing more peaceful than diving below the surface. The lake is my secret, my refuge.
But this is not a love story.
*****Asher Phipps is four years younger than me, but a good deal taller. When he was hardly more than a baby, his daddy, Otha, died in a threshing accident. Afterward, Asher's momma was no good for anything anymore, so he started tagging after me. He had a sweet country lisp and a toy duck on a string. He used to follow me everywhere.
I watched him on yellow afternoons, showed him how to make pets out of beetles, and dolls from corn husks, took him swimming in the creek.
Now, he's mostly grown and we haven't spoken in years, though I still see him nearly every day in the summers. Sometimes, his mouth is open like he's about to say something, but the sound never makes it all the way out. Sometimes I catch him looking at me, this raw, ragged look that I don't know how to answer.
Before this business of misfortune and grief, he was the golden one, hero-strong and best-loved. As for me . . . well, I'm the girl from the lake. It's been a long time since they didn't find me strange.
( . . . ) Our prompt for the month is Arthurian Legends