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Jaws

Maureen McDole

I refuse to let my child see the movie Jaws. My life is divided into two
scenes: before Jaws and after. I used to swim in the Gulf without thinking
about how many fingers and toes I could feel waving through the water,
but now every hair on my body is hyper aware–though the chance
of a shark attack is so rare, the fear wells in me imagining Jaws’ teeth
splitting me in two. I shriek if seaweed sweeps past my leg.
My friends who grew up in 1980’s Florida feel the same way:
without the shark ever touching teeth to our skin, Jaws scarred us. Now
my child is almost seventeen, and he swears to me he still hasn’t seen it.

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