Clutching our bellies after a warm, sumptuous feast that
with drowsy smiles, we claimed could only happen on weekends.
we’d say our empty goodbyes,
knowing we would return soon.
the door would open,
the cold air would rush in, desperate to taste the warm notes of apples, five-spice, and oranges
that is my
grandma’s home.
We used to go to that gas station.
It was always quiet while
Night was doing her work:
brushing glittering novas across the sky
for me to silently drink in
as I scrunched and wrinkled my nose at the thick smell of propane and junk food blanketing the air.
While the tank filled up,
daddy would squeegee the windows
suds in neat columns
all over the windshield and driver’s window.
but sometimes,
sometimes if I was lucky,
If the glittering stars,
warm blanket,
and
aroma of gas
were all perfectly aligned;
daddy would squeegee my window.
he’d create his columns of cloudiness
then follow with rows of clarity
and if he noticed my eyes
and my nose, all scrunched up,
he would smile,
the sweetness of his laughter rivaling the radiance of the stars.
and he’d scrunch his nose too, with a chuckle to himself as he moved to the next window.

I rarely go up to grandma’s house.
Clutching my almost-six-pack,
as I politely claimed I had already eaten, disgusted by the large feast.
who eats like this on weekends?
I’d say my empty goodbyes,
Eager to whip the door open,
become enveloped by the raw bite in the air,
anything to get away from the sickening smell of apples,
five-spice,
and oranges
wafting from
packaged bags and boxes that were placedin my mother’s hands.

We still go to that gas station,
the smell of propane and junk food still thick in the air.
However, night has grown weary,
her release of glitter has slowed.
and sometimes,
sometimes,
If the glittering stars,
warm blanket,
and
aroma of gas
were all perfectly aligned;
daddy would squeegee my window,
smiling at me
trying to get my attention,
as I pretend
to be
asleep.