Sundays in Spring.

  1. Straw brimmed hat wrapped with fabric flowers, elastic band tight under the throat;
    shiny new shoes, never white, always black;
    socks, with lace trim added by mum, or sold that way for little girls;
    tiny woven straw purse, white, to match the hat, always matching;
    and, the new Easter dress, elastic puff sleeves, Dotted Swiss or tiny floral print, smocked bodice, lace on the hem, all by mum’s hand
    the sun streaming through everything;
    jingling change in Daddy’s pocket;
    mum’s “Chantilly” perfume, the hankie in her patent leather purse with the single clasp in the center, the round pink Decco mints loose inside, vaguely “Chantilly” themselves;
    pale powder for her face and “Instant Mocha” lipstick;
    that lazy walk between Meeting and Sunday School, up the slight hill then across to Mammy’s house and back again,
    Little House on the Prairie, paved, with cars and Catholics on the corner;
    the smell of crisping roast beef in the oven, the mandarin oranges and fruit cocktail draining
    in the strainer, stealing maraschino cherries before the marshmallows were allowed in;
    later on, single dollops of real mayonnaise to top each square fruit jello placed on its lone page of lettuce, the china all stacked and ready;
    Daddy mashing the potatoes, then putting the leaf in the dining room table, the foam pad next, and the linen cloth over top;
    sitting on the front porch watching the bumble bees doze in and out of the hole in the cement steps, tracing the curves in the wrought iron railing;
    the new robins warbling in the trees;
    Daddy chatting or chuckling with a neighbor, singing, whistling…..
    “Dinner’s ready!” Mum calling out……………..
    to nap, mouth open, later on the living room chair
    while Daddy takes us to the zoo for a random romp with the little farm animals, the shade trees cooling him on the park bench, sleeves rolled up, elbows back, toothpick and tongue playing with each other…..
    time to return,
    his soft hand drapes over Paul’s shorn head, fingers reaching to fondle his earlobe…….
    my eyes wet, remembering, smiling, aching, longing, holding on.
    Heart yearning for this exquisite, precious, unmatched love.





© Ruth Ann Scanzillo


all rights the author’s. Thank you.

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