The tide mark

At low tide we could cross by counting stones. My brother knew the numbers; I knew where the green ones gave beneath a hurried foot. He called me slow. I called him back. The water was carrying its level up the wall.

Years later, at a table far inland, he tells the story: how he took my hand and led me safely over. I remember his sleeve pulled tight against my closing fist. We both remember getting to the other side.

Our children ask which one of us was frightened. He pours the tea. I cut the cake in halves, then halves again, making enough for everyone. Outside, a passing bus throws light across the ceiling, briefly turning it to water.