The Sand Hill Review http://www.sandhillreview.org 2004
Freedom
The summer I turned eight, my brother let me slip
behind him on the glitter-blue seat of his bike, my arms
around his waist, and taught me about freedom.
In
Wobbling into balance, we swerved past the village gate,
leaving the chores, the barking of dogs, the nanny
on her siesta. The wheels burned; the wind made whips
of my hair. Down three
blocks, the red-and-white striped
awning of
melting in jars, aspirin by
the piece, sacks of rice,
ice cold drinks. And
Rosemarie—storeowner, aging
movie star, wilting in
curlers and kabuki make-up
behind the glass case of
pencils, Band-Aids and glue.
In the air around her, the
buzz of small children,
like bees to their queen. Her
eyes, a shade lighter
than sorrow, widened with
kindness when she called
in sing-song Filipino accent,
What do you liiike? Faced
with the dilemma of Sarsi or Coke, I stood flamingo-style,
right foot on left leg, hand on hip, weighing the impact
of each choice. My brother, unspeaking beside me,
understood the heft of those minutes, the bondage
of indecision. Even the baby stopped crying.
The tsk, tsk, tsk of a lizard. From somewhere,
a love song on the radio.
Then oh, sweet poison—
the pop and hiss of the cap,
the cold-bitter slap
of Coke streaking the back of
my throat, the triumph
of decision. Oh, to be eight, to fly home on a bike
with your brother, belting out “Freedom” like Aretha
and the Blues Brothers, arms raised in chorus.
On the sidewalk, our combined shadows moved
at the speed of clouds, the inky shape of freedom,
that twin-headed beast, hybrid of terror and joy.