My left leg was misshapen, my head oblong. My arrival was sooner than expected, his wife not having carried me nine months in her womb. The fisherman’s cries of mercy woke my family the night I was born. The couple had too many as it were for a meager fisherman and his wife, and I was yet another mouth to feed.
They had six children before me, although Mother knew not in what mixture their genders numbered. The fisherman and his wife lived next to the water in a small, dilapidated shack made of rotten wood and leaky thatch. Mother heard the wails of the fisherman’s wife the night the woman discovered she carried me in her womb. My family wanted to migrate with the rest of their people, but they waited for me in the stillness of the waves, keeping an ever-watchful eye. Summer was waning when I was born, marked by the heat leaving the waters and the nights growing longer.
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