Koi

Koi knew he was special. His mother had told him so every day before she left him to the monastery. Even the sensei let him skip lessons whenever he wanted, and the Abbott would sit next to him at Family Feast. And weren't the monks always saying that Koi was plump, cherubic? As children came and adults left, Koi stayed.

Years ago Koi was a skater. He was great on anything with wheels, really, but boarding was his thing. What he was born to do. The other kids watched in studied amazement as he went from the silent kid at the back of class to daredevil with a noseslide down the main stair. He could do 360 flips on an incline, any-angled ollies and nollies (grinding or no), porpoise flips and dolphin flops, on pro ramps or off-road. Koi had a special relationship with gravity: an understanding. He understood the flow of objects in space; everything was always in motion, even when it appeared to be still. Koi's mind was always in motion.

Now Koi maintains the rock garden, where the parking lot used to be. The ripples on the rock pond seem to shimmer and dance around the islands of parking curbs.