Summer of '74

Summer of ‘74

We were young when the scent of that summer changed us forever.
It became vodka & tonics, without lime - of course.
Dad said limes were too easy, for wimps, wannabes… old ladies at brunch.

The scent of that summer hung just above his careful goodnight kisses,
Radiated from his sun-baked pores, followed him…
A trail of whitewashed popcorn seen by us, but never by him.

In the afternoon he'd wade out solid and strong,
White feet firmly planted in the pebbly shallows,
His legs oily pillars we'd climb upon.
Diving from his back and wide shoulders,
His body - a sturdy dock jutted out across the clear, still water.

The sound of that summer changed us - forever.
It became the sound in our father’s voice
When the sun’s laugh lines streaked across the dimming red sky.
It became the proof of his silence,
Addiction’s hands wrapped around his thick, corded neck.

In town, he’d buy us Frescas and Bazooka Joe
And we’d wait in the car, barely breathing,
Colorful bathing suits damp and flesh biting,
Our wet heads pressed together in covert silence.

There on the sweltering red vinyl of our mother’s prized Nova,
Rubbery flip-flops, our twenty brown toes lined up in a row,
We would sit and wait…
Waiting for that sound in our father’s voice.