You Remember

You Remember?
Mark Mika

It seems so long ago now. It seems stretched, like the saltwater taffy we bought on the boardwalk that day, into forever. I remember your face bursting into smile like the dawn in fast forward when you tasted it and it was so beautiful I remember my heart breaking into more pieces than a heart could ever be made of, then wondering where your mother was shopping. She wanted bric a brac for the summer house we had finally been able to purchase and wanted to find the “perfect pelican” for the front porch. I remember that.

Remember how we walked all down the boardwalk, and then back up. Doing touristy things. Cotton Candy which tickled your nose. The bumper cars you had us ride two times; first in separate cars and then together. You wanted to sit in my lap and smash into strangers as a team.

You fell when running towards the man on the stilts juggling and scraped your knee. There was just a slight bubble of blood from the scratch but you didn’t cry or even seem to mind. And we shot those old fashioned pellet guns at targets. Remember how bad I was. Couldn’t hit a barn with an elephant the old man running the booth joked with me. But you were skilled and won that enormous rabbit. You walked around so proudly with it all day, wouldn’t even let me help you carry it once. And then that evening you gave it to your sister. I was impressed and it reminded me that even little boys could also, at times, be men.

And we went on the Ferris wheel that sits in the middle of the boardwalk. You laughed so hard when we were stopped at the top for so long I thought you would burst. I gave the operator twenty dollars to do that.
Mostly we walked, and talked and spent the day just being together. You asked me why girls were so stupid. I told you they wouldn’t be stupid forever. You asked me for how long. I said… not long. Then you made the face you make when you’re trying to decide if you should tell me something. You do make that face. Your mother and I didn’t want to tell you though. When you’re a parent with a child that has a tell like that you want to keep it in your back pocket for as long as possible.

But then you decided and told me how you kissed Jenny Birch on the playground before we left for the shore. I asked you how it was. You said it didn’t suck. Then you said she punched you in the arm right after but that it still didn’t suck. I said I know exactly what you mean.

You asked me how they make saltwater taffy and I said I wasn’t sure but thought it involved a lot of stirring and pulling, and of course, some saltwater. You said maybe if we went back to where we bought it the man might tell us, which I thought was a smart idea. We did and he was more than happy to tell us everything we ever wanted, and didn’t want to know about making saltwater taffy.

We bought Italian Ice and you wanted to know why they called it Italian Ice. But the girl selling it wasn’t much older than you and didn’t know so we were content to enjoy it in ignorance.

In early evening we bought hot dogs and sat down by end of the boardwalk, looking at the ocean slowly pulling down the sun and you said these were the best hot dogs you ever had. I said I didn’t think finer hot dogs had ever been made; ever. You asked about your big sister. You wanted to know why she was crying last evening. You were genuinely concerned. I told you that boys can also be stupid sometimes. And you thought about that and then you made the face you make when you decide something and looked at your enormous rabbit. I hadn’t remembered that small detail until just now. That was when you decided to give it to her wasn’t it.

We walked for awhile and watched the daytime carnival turn into its nighttime cousin. Jugglers tossing glow balls, the younger children and parents giving way slowing to teenagers and felt myself wishing a machine existed that would slowly tug us back through to the day and to the point we arrived. So we could do it all over again.

I asked if you wanted to ride the roller coaster. It was a small coaster designed to thrill small boys but you said no and I could tell you were afraid. I asked if you were sure and you said yes and we left it at that.

Your mother and sister met us at the Ferris Wheel. And you gave her the enormous rabbit. We paid for double time and you rode with me, your sister with your mother behind us and we spun around and around, laughing and cheering and looking back at your mother and sister laughing and cheering.

It seems so long ago now. You remember that day don’t you? The boardwalk, bright sun and your father.

Explore posts in the same categories: Fiction

Tags: art, fathers, flash fiction

You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.