Midday

Gracie Lirette, United States

I think of my father when the sun is high in the sky. As the world shifts out of cool

mornings, and as ice cream starts to trickle down children’s fingers and splatter onto

sizzling concrete, I think of you, father. I think of your tanned skin, hardened by heavy days

of labor in summer heat. And I think of your own heat, whether it comes out through your

hot food, hot temper, or hot hands that strike my mother.

Oh, how I think of her too when the sun is high in the sky. As hands come up to

warm cheeks in the middle of a cold winter, and as soft words smooth out a blanket over

hearts, I think of you, mother. I think of mild spices and sweet smiles and meaningful hugs.

But Momma, your warmth could never cool the fire that was father. Instead you just added

to it, slowly adding more and more fuel to the flames.

I know he didn’t mean to hurt any of us, Momma, just as I know the sun will rise

again to this very same spot tomorrow. And here is where the ice cream will trickle down

children’s fingers and splatter onto sizzling concrete once again. But you, Momma? You will

never stand in this very spot again tomorrow. And father? You might one day. But not for a

long time, that’s what the man in blue told me last summer at this very same spot.

He told me I would never stand with you as ice cream trickled down my fingers and

splattered onto sizzling concret. He told me you would never take me for more, not at this

very spot nor when the sun is high in the sky nor when the world shifts out of cool

mornings.

The lady down the street who wears bright pink every other day told me something

similar. She told me you would never see ice cream trickling down your child’s fingers and

splattering onto sizzling concrete. She told me she doubted you would see the sun high in

the sky in a hundred years, instead only the burn of fire that you are made of. She told me it

will eat you alive. She told me you will feel the heat that Momma and I felt from you last

summer when the sun was high in the sky and the world seemed to shift out of cool

mornings.

And Momma, she told me about you too. She told me tomorrow you will have all the

mild spices and sweet smiles and meaningful hugs you want. She told me if I wait long

enough both of us can eat ice cream, and it can trickle down our fingers and splatter onto

sizzling concrete. She told me if father is burning alive, you are pleasantly warm. And one

day, if I am like you, Momma, then I can come to that place too.

Momma, I do wish that your soft words could smooth out a blanket over my heart,

and that your hands could come up to warm my cheeks in the middle of a cold winter,

especially after what father did. But he is far away, and you even farther. The men in blue

are taking care of father, that’s what they told me. And the lady down the street who wears

bright pink every other day told me you will always be close.

I miss you, Momma, as the sun sinks down past the horizon and rises up again as a

new day starts.

But father? Everyone tells me I shouldn’t, but as that same summer sun that

witnessed our lives burning sinks into the hardened earth, I think of your hands. I think of

your tanned skin, hardened by heavy days of labor in summer heat. Heavy like your heart, I

dare to think when the sun is no longer watching over me. And father? In these quiet

moments, the men in blue and the lady down the street who wears bright pink every other

day seem so far away. And I let myself shed a single tear. Not for Momma, no, I’ve let many

fall for her. But instead for you, who maybe was hardened by more than days of labor in

summer heat.

I miss you, Father.

Gracie Lirette is a sixteen year old rising junior from Tennessee. She loves school, hanging out with friends, reading, and (of course,) writing. Her goal here is to gain more experience and grow her skills as a young writer.