Calculated Risk
- lesalexa
- Dec 18, 2017
- 1 min read
The radio started the ruckus.
Eddie Arnold crooned and Arthur Godfrey chuckled
as pots and pans clanged in the kitchen.
Mom had pulled the blankets off the day.
Dad’s lunch was packed.
Coffee chugged on the stove.
Bacon crackled in the skillet.
Soon she would yell down the hallway
about the perils of being late for school:
early birds getting all the worms,
children starving in China,
or some other scold used to chide careless,
ungrateful children reluctant at their chores.
On weekend trips to grandpa‘s,
her left index finger with the blue diagonal scar warned us,
flicking on the back of the front seat in the old green Buick
while Dad was driving.
We knew it wasn’t a tick;
more like code tapping out a list of punishments
that would match the venial sins
being committed in the back seat.
We kept on squirming, giggling, pinching and poking,
calculating the risk,
knowing the car would suddenly swerve
as Dad’s calloused hand swung back,
clipping the first child within reach.
Why didn’t she warn us, then,
about the aching chasm that would be created
when that scar-crossed finger finished wagging;
leaving us to carry on?
Sybilla 10/7/11