June Begins

I leave work and go to Baskin-Robbins to get my son an ice cream cake. It’s round and brown and festooned with Oreos and whipped cream and is big enough for two dozen. I have them write “Happy Birthday Skzx!” on it (except they write his real name). I crank up the A/C and am highly conscious of the late afternoon sunlight hitting the passenger seat and its cargo. I want everything to be right, as always, and melted ice cream cake isn’t quite right.

We gave him presents over a week ago. All it is tonight is a party. Kids, burgers, cake, whatever. I drive up to my house and it is hidden behind a parking lot. The driveway, the side yard, the cul-de-sac, all covered in cars. I park on the only space left, the weed-bare dirt below the lawn.

When did my youngest child get to be old enough to have friends who drive?

There are eighteen or twenty boys and girls in my house. A few still not yet to full height. A few quite fully developed indeed. Music (jazz!), laughter, crazy in-crowd humor, video games. Everyone is friends with everyone. Popularity has installed itself at, of all the unlikeliest places, my house.

Life is good. I’d say let’s not ruin it but the great thing is, here in this house, on this street, where the low sun cuts through the surrounding oak trees and birds twitter and happy young people drop each other off and talk to their moms on their cell phones and summer vacation peeks around the corner like a great benevolent god trying to hide his smile, we couldn’t ruin it. There’s no way.