At the aquarium, my four-year-old son is obsessed with the Atlantic sturgeon

They swim in an open-lid tank, tails swishing side to side. As we approach, the aquarist says we are welcome to touch, instructs us to stroke their skin with two fingers, front to back. She says the row of bony back plates running down their body acts like armor. Protection from predators. My son dips a finger into the water and gives a shivered shout as one sturgeon slips past. What does it feel like? I ask. He thinks about it, and I know he’s thinking about it because I know his face better than I know my own, the way his little brows lift and his lashes stretch and his hazel eyes go wide. They feel bumpy, he says, then clarifies, like asphalt. And now he’s excited, thinking about asphalt and front loaders and diggers and dirt, and despite my best efforts I can’t understand how something so ugly has made him so happy. Then again, he doesn’t know about ugliness, doesn’t yet know how ugly this world can be, what it means to shield his eyes, to look the other way. The sturgeon are congregating at the far end of the tank, clumsily bumping tails and snouts, and I look at them, the soft barbels protruding from their lips like soggy tusks, eyes vacant and unfocused, bored to death by this life. My little boy didn’t seem to care about the sea lions or seahorses, didn’t stick around to watch the otters or jellyfish. But now he is glued to the glass, face to face with this thing that I find so repulsive, and suddenly I find myself praying, fervently wishing that one day I will see what he sees, will look at the world the way he does, will believe the best in everything and everyone, even when predators are circling and life feels bumpy and no amount of asphalt can pave the way forward. Even then, I want to believe that we are on the cusp of something lustrous. Even then, I want to believe that beauty is right there, on the verge of bumping into us from the far side of our tank. 

Mia Herman is a Jewish writer and editor living in New York. She holds an MFA in creative writing from Hofstra University and is the author of the poetry chapbook Until the End of Time (Alien Buddha Press, 2023). Her work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Barren Magazine, Bellevue Literary Review, Redivider, Third Coast, and Variant Literature, among others. Connect with her on X @MiaMHerman or drop her a line at mia.herman.writes@gmail.com.     

This essay is a Short Reads original.