I must confess—I forget the park’s name.
Lomond View? Bannister? No matter.
I remember the grass: prickly, stiff,
straw-thin blades that stabbed the summer dirt,
which sifted between my toes
like bread flour, like silt at the Stockton viaduct’s lip.
That greedy grass—
barbed, starving, eager to run with the river
that bent beside it,
babbling praise to the God
no one sees but everyone believes when barefoot.
I came tumbling down,
laughing or screaming—who remembers which—
and in that tumble,
sacrificed my hot-pink Woolworth zoris,
foam lambs flung to that petty God
who collects all unpaired things:
socks, lunch money, and dignity.
What is gained by such sacrifice?
My soles, freed from plastic stings,
met earth as if meeting truth.
My prize?
Bits of molded plastic scattered across the knob,
part puzzle, part relic,
awaiting resurrection.
Back to the barbecue—
tin foil, grey suet, and miracles:
a wheel found beneath the oak,
a seat back in the shadow of spruce,
and my father, my uncle—
electric with joy,
wires above crackling in holy witness
as they cobbled salvation from ruin.
The Big Wheel took form.
Red body, blue plug-holes gaping,
shoelace axles and a mother’s makeup mirror
made do for style.
Uncle Bill, square-armed, brave fool,
took his vow as the first rider.
Down he launched—
into the same sacrificial hollow,
spinning to a stop like the commercial said,
smiling back at us like the sun breaking a rule.
Eight open mouths
screamed to be next.
Even Momma, rose-lipped and silk-scarfed,
let loose a yell
that cracked the world open.
She said later it never happened—
but I know her masks.
I saw her joy.
By day’s end, none of us
were standing in it.
We were standing on it—
courage and wheel grease
lifting our spirits off the soil.
Each time I hear the shriek of a tire,
or the rasp of trike wheels on sidewalk,
I return to that hill,
to the moment when time paused
and I made a trade with God.
A fair trade:
foam zoris
for the memory of laughter,
for a seat in the sun,
for a glimpse of my mother
as the star of her own unspoken rebellion.
Somewhere, maybe,
she wears my zoris still—
heaven’s sidewalks warmed
beneath her feet.
