Six-year-old Jody pedals in on his yellow Huffy, playing card clothespinned between the spokes because the engine sound he makes sputtering air over his lips is sweet, but not enough.
Swizzle stick in hand, my mother conducts the orchestra inside her gin and tonic, my father wheeling past in his heavenly convertible, his friend they call the “King of Sweden” in tow.
The hell of it is wanting to stay. Cuban cigars, discount Winnebagos, washtub hooch, all the people you loved closer to you than fog in a cow’s mouth.
Everyone’s come so far.
Hundreds of sparrows, an army of twigs, the toothy smile of a carousel stallion on an afternoon the color of birthday cake. October of sawdust and Nixon mask, star charts, war balloons, all the grown-ups getting loud in the living room, still reeling from the rides and sausage and beer, carrying on about what fell from whose pockets on the Loop-
The-Loop, whose wig went crooked on the Tilt-A-Whirl.