I remember holding my dad’s hand at the edge of the fountain. The water jets skyward at different intervals, random and unpredictable. A mist, like spiderwebs at dawn, drifts in our direction. I remember letting go of my dad’s hand and scurrying down the concrete curvature of the fountain’s bowl, slowing down and inching my way towards the odd, upside down colander. Thinking, we are hanging by our feet as water rushes through the holes at the bottom while some invisible world resides on the other side. As I get nearer a burst of water erupts before me and I scream, catching my breath, spinning around, and running straight back to my dad, who is waiting with a towel in his open arms.
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a real memory?
Nope. “This is fiction”. But the sentiment is non-fiction.