It’s hot. On this August summer day the humidity laid there like a thick - invisible fog pouring over Amy’s soft skin. The sweat rolled off like bouncing rain drops. Amy is just a child of eight. Her hair, blonde, has not yet turned auburn. That change happens next year when even the soft curls that now frame her delicate features disappear. What will remain is a deep dimple on her left cheek when she smiles. But, smiles will become less common as she grows up, as they often do. Life confronts innocence as if in a dance of slowly dissipating dreams. But this day Amy is living only in the relevance of the day. Amy’s dad shakes the salt into his Fall City beer. She wonders why anyone would drink something that smells so - bitter. But Amy doesn’t know that word yet so to demonstrate her disapproval she crinkles her rounded nose at the smell. Her dad and brother are sitting outside drinking and talking, creating formations of words outside her complete understanding.
Amy cut some red roses that had fully blossomed from her mom’s rose bushes leaving very little of the stem. She tucked the roses in the pocket of her shorts. Her mom is inside with her two sisters Mage and Karen. She liked to place these roses in the green plastic mugs from the kitchen. As she ran into the house to get these mugs and water her mom yells to her to not slam the door. Of course, Amy does. She always slams the door. She’s eight and a bit thoughtless. Preoccupied always with whatever task is at hand. “Why must you always slam the door Amy?” Amy largely ignores this question posed by her mom because she has been asking the same question all summer long. Amy grabs the green plastic mugs from the kitchen cabinet and fills them with water from the sink. As Amy walks out with the mugs filled with water some water spills. Amy opened the door and she let it fly and boom the door slammed again. She could hear her mom yell again as she jetted off into the yard, “Why did you slam the door! Quit doing that Amy!” as she ran thru the yard her mom’s voice became smaller and smaller like a voice was going thru a long tunnel.
Amy approached the patio table where her dad and brother Ken were and laid the mugs with water down and took the first rose from her pocket and placed it inside a mug. Once all the mugs were filled with roses Amy sat down next her dad. Her feet would not yet touch the ground. She kicked her feet back and forth, legs swinging in mid-air while trying to ease into their conversation. Amy didn’t have to work too hard to get the attention of her dad or her brother. “What do you have there Amy?” her Dad asked. “Roses that I cut all by myself.” Amy responded. “Well that’s very pretty Amy. Amy,” her dad said, “could you not slam the door anymore? Your mom has a headache and I’m tired of hearing her complain!” She thought carefully about her Dad’s request. She looked up to him. The sweat from his forward was rolling down into his eyes. He took his glasses off and wiped his forehead and eyes with an old dish towel in one movement. While he was placing the glasses back on Amy responded, “Yes, Dad.” And for the rest of the day Amy carefully and thoughtfully shut the door quietly.
originally posted on 8/12/12
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