Cape Cod Grandpa 1968
by Alice Kaltman
He can be Grandpa. I need a grandpa.
A horseshoe crab that has seen things, done things. Still living a long horseshoe crabby life. Ginormous. Crusty with barnacles and tiny mussels. Experienced. I already have a whole slew of his dead relatives lined up in size order outside the crappy shack my human family has rented for two weeks. Mother Crab, Father Crab, Big Kid Crab, Middle Kid Crab, Little Kid Crab. My Horseshoe Crab Family. They smell like rancid salted putrid dry cracked brittleness, but my human parents support my ten year old imagination, or maybe they’re just fed up with me, their dreamy son, so they let the mini-monsters lay there, baking in the sun on the splintery deck, stinking up our beach vacation.