Somersaults — Just Because (short version)
by Crystal Craig

A bowl of cold cereal with Saturday morning cartoons,

digging to the bottom of the box for the crinkly-wrapped prize.

Cracker Jacks always beat that dreaded red box of raisins,

but scraping processed cheese from a red plastic stick?

Even better.

The neighbor kids’ mom offered Pop-Tarts—

had to cut me off.

I learned fast:

go outside before grown-ups found me something to do.

“Don’t slam — the door.”

The freedom of somersaults—just because.

The sacred hiss of a sprinkler.

The sharp sweetness of wet on warm pavement.

Summer at last.

Jumping in puddles—

the ultimate dance of a joyful life.

Riding bikes for hours, never tiring,

playing cards in our spokes, tassels on our handlebars,

racing through the house for a dime—

the popsicle truck just two blocks away—then triumph:

a tri-colored libation dripping down my arm.

Rolling hard-earned pennies into paper sleeves,

trading a roll for a giant dill pickle from the barrel.

And if there was change left?

A Ring Pop—

or a powdery candy necklace strung on elastic thread.

The jolt of whiplashing gravity on the merry-go-round—

the dangerous kind that spun us breathless with laughter.

Then the dramatic final act—

we’d stumble, crash, and collapse,

giggling in the grass.

The sound of roller skates on uneven sidewalks.

The first contact burn from a metal slide

in midsummer shorts.I still crave bark worn smooth

on the reading perch of my favorite apple tree.

The tang of steel on calloused hands

from mastering the monkey bars and rings—

that wild, soaring confidence to launch skyward—

and if you were really good,

you punctuated it with a clang that rang like victory.

Always scraped knees and elbows—

because life meant taking risks

just to reach the clouds—faster.

Time churned slowly

as clouds shapeshifted above—

creatures I knew were watching us, too.

Chopped vocals vibrating Oo-oo-oh and Aa-aa-ah

through the blades of a box fan.

Wrapped in my blanket during a wild windstorm,

utterly convinced I could make it blow harder

if I just wished hard enough.

Gathering and naming all the special rocks

along the shores of Spirit Lake—

before the Mountain blew.

The way the earth breathes its fertile perfume

when I sink my hands into soil.

It feels good.

Right.

The way my father stared into the firelight,

smile lines crinkling deep.

The way my mother lit up

when she looked at him.

Under the covers with a flashlight,

breath held, heart thudding—

because I needed to know how the story ended.

My grinning soul returning home.

A child of the ‘70s.