My Supper Tale

Seaweed salad. We went out for sushi tonight, and it was the first dish I ordered. There is something medicinal about this green, salty delight that I crave.

Perhaps it's because I was a mermaid for many years, spending hours exploring the waters of spring-fed Island Pond. Diving down, I'd flip toward depths that were too far from the sun to be warmed. Reaching my arms as far as they could go, I'd touch the pond floor on a dare. No one liked to touch the muck, but as a mermaid I knew I could, so I did. My fingers brushed over mossy rocks and decaying wood. I made my way to a sunken boat and I was rattled by the spirit of the man who left it behind, but I grabbed a rusted oarlock as proof of my discovery anyway. Before I resurfaced, I'd host a tea party for the other mermaids with wild hair and bubbly smiles.

We never ate seaweed. No, it wasn't on the menu in this freshwater haven, not even for mermaids. It is now that I order the seaweed, a magic mixture of minerals, when a long day on two feet reminds me of home.