I’ll Turn A Cartwheel For You
I always loved the smell of lighter fluid on a warm summer’s day. It meant everyone was going to be in a good mood, and we were going to eat sumptuously. The dads got liquored-up friendly. Each dad relived his football days, even if he never lived them in the first place. Backyard pick-up games became historical in the shade of the reminiscent days. Hamstrings were pulled in today’s nostalgic play, but there are beers for that ailment. Sons were thrown into the game, while daughters did cartwheels on the poorly defined sidelines. Then a dad would enter the women’s kitchen with a status on the meat. Everything pended upon the Men’s contribution was the consensus white lie. The dad, with a ticking pass inside the kitchen, pumped-up conditioning a welcome repeal from outside, would pinch ambrosia or watergate salad. A salad that, on any other day, would not be considered a salad. An unwelcome trespass on the mom’s dishes without washing hands, but a forgiven transgression today. And if not too drunk, he was pinching his own wife with a wink. During the fades between adventure and make-believe games, the children soaked up the joviality of the adults; a sneak peek of who we were to be.
- Leah Holbrook Sackett, TFJ Issue One: Celebrations
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