Walk Home Together

I am almost 5 and trying to get a cold Coke in the shade underneath pine trees. The metallic flecked sandy clay is gritty on my hands as I try to push both side buttons in to open the Igloo cooler. Sunburn sting and wet bathing suit. I keep escaping out of my life jacket “But I can swim now!” 

Papa, Navy tattoos on his dark forearms, pulling me skiing while he somehow smokes a cigar. I love him so much but I don’t know how to say it. It’s ok because he doesn’t talk much either. 

Cruising in an overloaded pontoon boat at sunset in no particular direction. The Four Tops on the stereo. Dad says, “How bout hand me one a them Coors Lights there, baby?” 

Jumping off the middle ledge at Chimney Rock. It’s not the top but it’s high enough. Heart beating fast. Just do it; don’t think about it. In the air flying my hair is in my face can’t see but remembering to straighten my legs at the last second. Bathing suit top somehow around my neck now so I stay underwater and fix it. 

Skipping school senior year. Water is too cold to swim but we all do. Wine coolers. Led Zeppelin. Being afraid of everything. Trying to act like we’re not.  

Sitting on the screen porch late at night. Frogs and crickets calling. Ceiling fan. Dogs everywhere. It smells like Off and fried fish. Arguing politics and playing name that tune. It’s Galveston by Glen Campbell. 

Floating in the dark in an ornery ski boat that’s seen better days. Love is new and makes me so nervous. Hot as fried hell and no breeze. “You won’t do it…” he says. So of course I do. The lake is as warm as a bath and I backflip underwater like a seal. Nothing feels as good as this. 

Toddlers in arm floaties jumping off the dock. “One…two…three!” They pop right back up like little giggling corks. Popsicles. Watermelon. Splinters. Naps. Lightning bugs. 

Wine over ice. Scratched up Ray Bans. Soft faded Auburn t-shirt from a long ago party. Wet hair and warm skin that smells like Coppertone. Lit charcoal. Pine straw underfoot. One of my brothers’ Labs dropping a tennis ball at my feet. Ok. I throw it into the water and he looks at me like “Really? That’s all you got?” My pitching is substandard. He fetches it anyway and drops it again; it bounces away as he shakes water off. He’s drenching me as punishment. 

Sending my sons off to bass fish early in the morning. Backwards baseball caps. Smack talking each other’s lack of skills and tendency to exaggerate. Pop Tarts gatorade and sunflower seeds. Too much tackle. Good luck y’all have fun, I say. And I love you.