summer writing

Los Angeles, 1988

Green dish soap swiped off the cracked white tile

counter was Dad’s genius answer to our pleas of

 faster, faster! The Slip ’N Slide, a runway of plastic

stretched across our yard and (with permission) onto the

neighbor’s.  A beautifully perfect green lawn that made Dad

shake his head on several occasions. Water from the hose

made the yellow contraption work well-enough in July,

but we wanted more.  We were free,

we wanted to fly. Just a few drops from the bottle

and Dad’s cockamamie scheme sent our summer

browned bodies rocketing across the two lawns. With reckless

abandon we threw ourselves over and over again,

only Dad’s cautions about the approaching sidewalk, louder than

our squeals of delight. Ours was a city of cement and right

angles, neighborhoods basted in perfect patchwork quilts, tiny

squares of real estate stitched together, every inch

exploited and accounted for. We dreamed of huge

backyards, settling instead for the sun-warmed hose

water out of the sprinkler, taking turns leaping through the umbrella

of mist—our imaginations filling in the small spaces with fat

cavernous swimming pools and yards wide
enough to keep us safe from skinned knees. 

© Ilene, 2011