Dear Little Jo,
The summer before my father died there was a family picnic down at the river. Sylvan had his own car by then, and one of Sylvan’s friends was there with his truck, and Uncle Viktor in the company van. I remember that for some reason they parked all the vehicles in the gravel lot with the noses together, like bison.
My dad cooked sausages and steaks on the barbecue. I remember swimming with the sun getting low and the green water sparkling in its shallows. Later the supper smells died under the woodsmoke. Sylvan’s friend played Zeppelin on his car stereo, and Dad and Uncle Vik stacked the fire against the cold.
Mark rolled a cigarette and passed it to Sylvan. Dad reached for a puff, but Sylvan laughed and said, “It’s a joint, Dad.”
Our towels dried on the bushes. Uncle Vik pinched a mosquito on his arm and licked the blood off his fingers. He was just Uncle Vik to me then, nothing but a shadow in the background of my father.
Night, fire, music. The dirt cold under my butt, my face warm against Dad’s knee, my head joggling as he kept the beat with his toes. I remember his bare shins were crisp and hot under my hand from the close-by flames.
And I was happy, so happy.
I mean I was young—way younger than my brothers. All I knew was that there were these men around me—all these strong Kurlansky men surrounding me, who would always be there, I thought. Who would keep me safe. Who would show me the way.
Sincerely,
AK