Summer rain pelted the hot road, and patted me on the head.
Handle bars wriggled, slick with rain as I strained to reach the summit of Hill street.
So many times before I made my way, legs burning, back arching as I pedaled standing up.
Getting closer, I viewed the weathered green van.
Inside, grandma cooked, piling filled plates over limited counter space.
Grandpa sat at the table, folding his deck.
Uncle Matt accepted his loss.
Grandpa laughed his rich laughed and sipped at his coffee, cigarette lit.
The kitchen began to fill as my family filed in.
I could hear my aunts, uncles, mom, brother, cousins and the twins.
I retired to pack my knapsack, stuffing clothes and organizing as often as I do, now.
Stuffing in the food as fast as possible afterwards, I’m outside again.
The rain a cool opposite to my hot face.
I sing some song and begin running and jumping until I’m flying, zipping to the tops of trees and swinging recklessly with total control.
Throughout my superfluous frivolity, I could hear my name being called.
It’s my grandma’s voice, a high pitched whistle, diving upwards to reach me.
Dawning Creations 
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