3 little girls all lined up in a row on their kitchen chairs,
chins in their palms,
elbows on the table.
Daddy spins Mommy around the kitchen counter.
Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” echoes through the walls,
as her long dress and heels tangle with his weekender cigar-and-grill sneakers.
At the lighthouse, the waves hit the rocks again,
and again and again.
The little blonde, freckled-faced, Irish girl searches for sea glass.
Every now and then, she’ll pause from her pursuit to look up and
wave to the boats passing by. Some have just caught today’s lobsters.
The tides starts to reach her toes. The little girl’s grandmother calls that
it’s time for sandwiches.
New Mexican chile verde.
A small but comfortable living room adorned with paintings of mountains and blankets woven
by the Navajo women on the reservation the town over.
A card game is played at the table. Pitch.
The three men drink their beer. The fourth sips water.
After many years, I’ve earned myself a seat as the only girl at this table.
Not that it really matters here.
My grandfather, who spent the afternoons of his youth at the Nebraskan pool hall, playing this very game,
sits at the head of the table.
He winks at me, and takes one more sip of his cold Budweiser.
He surveys the men from his eagle’s nest
then throws down his cards,
”I bid four.”