the last afternoon of summer
ozone and ice cream
You’re standing on a grassy knoll and cool, salty air tempers the burning sunshine on your shoulders, and there you watch him. He concentrates on the spool, watching it spin in his hands, forgetting the climbing kite for the reeling tension between his fingers, still sticky with dried ice cream. His hair, like golden straw, smells of ozone and the grub of a week’s play, speckled with sand and grass seed. If you hover above him a bit longer: the smack of sunscreen on your nose, the same kind you wore as a child: the one in the brown plastic bottle with the knobby sides. Coppertone. And the distant smell of funnel cake, the tang of grilled meat, kettle corn gobbiness, crystallized salt on your bare, browning arms. There is nothing but us, and the kite, spinning skywards, poised like a gull.
indoor track & field
I have a lot of Dad in my makeup but I was never a track star. And then there were my grandfathers, who ran on athletic scholarship against the likes of Jessie Owens. But I ran without much mojo one season in grade school before deciding to just stick to ballet and pirouette clearly within the boundaries of my own security.
Last August we visited home and Dad hung with the boys quite a bit. It was raining most of the time and I came home one day, sopping wet, to find them watching the decathlon and practicing the high jump onto the sofa. Dad had them both in perfect form, something I couldn’t have taught, and they boys were totally into it, spring-loading themselves in playful arcs across the living room. It was awesome.
I can’t tell you how to perform the proper pole vault, but Ford had his own method and was in the zone already when I arrived on the scene yesterday. I gave him a few pointers but decided ultimately to just let him figure out what worked best for him. I sat on the floor and watched him in my amazement, deciding that, at least in spirit, we may have another hopeful athlete in the family.