Women in colorful, gay dresses. Men in Panama hats and suits. The sweet aroma of cigars. The heady odor of dirt and fresh white paint. The sights and sounds and scents of the Kentucky Derby assault my nostrils. Make my head spin. I tremble.
Jason pats my side, stroking his fingers through my mane.
“April showers bring May flowers.” That’s what my grandma always said when I ran to hide under the table as thunder cracked the sky.
She claimed our family were the shepherds of this process, that the lightning couldn’t reach the plants without our help. Lightning Petal Farmers, everyone else called us.
On a warm April afternoon, a loud knock sounded at the front door. I set down an overflowing laundry basket and pulled the door open.
The short woman with cropped gray hair looked familiar. “I’m Rhonda,” she said. “I live across the street.” Right. In the three years since we had moved in, she had never introduced herself.
Wails.
They pierce through the walls of our cabin. Echo in the hall outside. Like the ship is haunted and full of ghosts. I shiver, bury myself in the blankets. My body slides against the wall of my berth. I scoot back to my warm spot. Slide down again.
Pounding and banging. Slams and thuds.
“Mom, do you know how to make a burrito?”
“Old Earth foods are under heading six on the Nutritionator,” I muttered as I held up my hand massager to the light. Yep. Little tooth marks lined the pinky finger. I shook my head in confusion. While I’d noticed scrapes on my hair-styler that morning, I’d thought they were scuff marks
I was only seven when Aunt Toni tried to find her own fountain of youth, so some of the technical details are a little fuzzy. For instance, I can’t remember the name of the anti-aging cream Helena Rubenstein made, but I know that this once-great cosmetics company sold it for big bucks since it was reputed to restore your skin to that of a newborn babe.
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Rich pulled his chair out from the breakfast table and glanced across it at his grandson. Tommy had his hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle a laugh. Rich bit back a smile. Tommy really hadn’t hidden the whoopee cushion well enough. Oh well, what could you expect from an eight-year-old? He sat down. Blaaaat.
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Gramps never did like paying taxes. But that didn’t mean he should abolish the IRS.
“Never have I used the word ‘abolish,’” he protested to Grandma, as he’d done every April for each of the thirteen years I’d lived with them. “But what’s wrong with invisible-izing myself?”
He meant really invisible-izing, as in, all records of his existence…
Let’s get one thing straight: I hate Pinocchio. It’s because of that dumb puppet we celebrate Pinocchio Day on April 1st, where everyone tries to see how many lies and pranks they can get away with. That’s fun—but then comes Honesty Day.
See, the Blue Fairy who brought Pinocchio to life felt slighted that he—and others—reveled in lying on April 1st.
I knew two things about Boston. Running was its heartbeat and ducks were always welcome. Momma had told me of that magical place when I was a duckling. As a grown hen, I shared the tale with my two daughters, Roxi and Sara, and our decision to move was unanimous.
Ten days after departing Rochester, we were gliding over Boston Public Garden.
I remember how the rain poured when we boarded our flight from Virginia two weeks ago. A typical, gloomy, East Coast April day. Penny and I both have seasonal depression, so when the opportunity arose to take a ten-years-overdue honeymoon to sunny Djerba Island for two weeks, we didn’t hesitate.
I wish we had.
You wouldn’t forget the date of your dad’s death any more than you’d forget your own.
January 3, 1962. The worst day of my life. And only two months later, we’re going to Disneyland.
“Swell way to mourn,” I muttered.
Mom flinched like I’d punched her in the gut, but it was my kid sister Susie…
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