Story from the Fall issue: Amanda Miska. Slow Wave.

pea river journal

Amanda Miska


I knew your brother before he died. You have the same eyes—deep river-silt brown with black lashes like feathers. He and I shared a group of friends and the occasional poorly-rolled joint. He was only two years older but he always called me Kid.

I hear you’re afraid of the river now. Sold your boat and your fishing gear a few months back. My dad bought one of your fly rods, and it made me angry, like he was giving you permission to give up on something.

I’ve got a feeling about you, like maybe you’re buried under something you can’t lift all by yourself. I saw you on the porch swing with that girl the other night when I was walking the dog because I couldn’t sleep. Two in the morning. Her giggle made me turn and then I couldn’t look away. She was on…

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