Dad is heading out to play ball with his buddies.
Mom suggests he take the kids and me along.
His word he won’t drink tonight
not enough, voices rise
tempers flare, and finally,
he puts on a smirk and asks us,
“Ready to watch your dad play some ball?”
like this was his idea all along.
When we get to the field
he tells us to go ahead,
he’ll meet us at the dugout.
I hold two small hands
turn back and catch him
standing by the trunk,
bottle to lips.
I’m glad Mom’s not here. He is
Pinocchio in silhouette.
I forgot to bring a book,
so I play in the dirt with Cara and Chris until
streaks of dust darken our arms and legs.
Hours later, Dad yells overly loud goodbyes
out the open window
while steering us out of the lot.
I wonder if he remembered
the blasphemous bottle (bottles?) from the trunk.
And
then
we are speeding and passing a car on the wrong side of the road, which is totally fine with this type of long, straight stretch of road with dotted yellow lines. Everything’s okay, except that this is not okay at all because right now there is a car coming toward us closer and closer and closer so fast that I realize that Dad is more drunk and less Dad, and I pull my dirt-streaked legs to my chest and turn into a ball on the passenger seat, shut my eyes, and pray please, Jesus, and the long honk of the oncoming car slides by us so close it marks my shift
to Mom’s side.