I imagine everybody has special names for things in their childhood. I remember a few of mine. There was: ‘the down-down’ – which referred to the bottom floor of the split-level house we lived in, and ‘the back-back’ (I didn’t say we were super creative), for the small space behind the back seat in our Volkswagen Beetle, and ‘tickle bumps’ which were what I describe here in this poem and which oddly are much more difficult to orchestrate than when I was a kid (probably because I’m now the one with the splayed hand…
Following the usual feast after church,
we piled in the Rambler, pluming dust behind
our red family sedan. Dad, appetite sated
and conscience cleansed, was susceptible
to a little thrill seeking on a Sunday afternoon.
What I remember, wedged between
my brothers, is we three teasing
and cheering Dad to speed up just before
any apparent rise or bump in the road
lifting the car a little – if timed just right –
and flipping our stomachs – a tickle bump,
a thrill legitimized by Mom’s hand
splayed white against the dash.
© 2016 – Laurel Archer
Photo – Pixabay.com