Black Fly

You had just turned twelve; more than four years since the accident. Life, at least on the surface, had returned to normal. Late summer at Scruton Pond with Mimi and Charter. I remember this shot because in it you are running from a black fly that attacked you while you were swimming. No matter how far or how long you went under water, it was waiting to dive-bomb you. I was laughing when I took this shot; but I was ready to run up to our bikes, too. The black flies had all of a sudden come out, and I wanted to avoid getting bitten. I think I was even calling for you to hurry up. And there you were, in full flight: water coming off you, in a posture of intent running. I took the shot and turned to go. You sprinted past, racing along the floating dock, rocking it from side to side. And we jumped on our bikes and peddled madly back to the house. Another late summer evening cut short by black flies.