My mother has never pumped gas.
I love this despite what anyone thinks.
I give my mother a gold star. For this.
I remember a friend who said he had a friend who had never been passed. Driving. This is the only thing I can think of that is anything better than my mother never pumping gas.
I can tell you.
My mother can balance a checkbook better than your accountant
who hasn’t written a check. In a decade. Or more.
I remember summer.
It was watermelon on picnic tables.
And bible school. Crafts. Like macrame. And papier-mache.
I made a papier-mache maraca from an old lightbulb. You had to break the bulb when you were finished. This seems dangerous for a kid. But we were in a church so it worked out just fine.
Vents and blanket forts as tents. With books. My sister and me.
The books held everything in place.
Until dad came home for dinner.
My mother watched As The World Turns or One Life To Live.
One of those.
They were the same to us. They are all the same to her now.
Summer was popsicles and bicycles. And Barbies.
My Barbie was a single Mom. Riding around in her camper van.
She didn’t take any shit from anybody. She had the light blue one piece bathing suit.
I had red white and blue roller skates.
Our neighbor had an Elton John record.
It was pine straw and pavement and 8 track tapes.
Skyrockets in flight.