Somersaults — Just Because

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.

Braiding dandelions—we were kings and queens of the wild.
The sacred hiss of a sprinkler.
The sharp sweetness of wet on warm pavement.
Summer at last.
The delicious scent of rose petal and grass-mud pies
baking on chalk-drawn stovetops in the middle of the driveway.
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.
The proud accomplishment of double Dutch.
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—
that wild, soaring confidence to launch skyward—
and if you were really good,
you punctuated it with a clang that rang like victory.
Douglas fir sap anchoring our stories to bare feet.
Always scraped knees and elbows—
because life meant taking risks
just to reach the clouds—faster.

Chewing rhubarb stalks till my lips blistered.
Time churned slowly
as clouds shapeshifted above—
creatures I knew were watching us, too.
My imaginary siblings helped build homes in the woods
for lost things.

The waxy smell of a fresh box of 64 crayons.
Cornflower was my favorite.
Chopped vocals vibrating Oo-oo-oh and Aa-aa-ah
through the blades of a box fan.
Concentrating for hours—
trying to blow out a candle with my mind
or move a pen across the table.
Wrapped in my blanket during a wild windstorm,
utterly convinced I could make it blow harder
if I just wished hard enough.

The first time I touched a piano—
the room spun and beckoned me in.
Believing butterflies landed on me
because we spoke the same language.
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.