Banana Island

In the daytime, we bask in the sun, but the rays are harsh in this swampy corner of the river. It rubs our skin red and raw, but in two days’ time, the desirable brown will develop like a roll of film, and the water is murky and warm as we braid thread, waiting for midday to slip away. There are trees on the riverbank and just where the water kisses the sand, but they haven’t had leaves for a long time. Dusk sneaks up on us, wrapping our boat in swathes of blue and orange. I’m chewing on my fingers while Dad splashes the birds and laughs, but I’m not laughing. The water looks smooth and silky; we aren’t fooled, we know the shadows conceal a patient crocodile lurking below the surface. And so, as we leave behind this small rocky island with murky water and dead trees and crocodiles, I can’t help but look back at its shrinking outline on the horizon like it’s a mirror.