The Sock Family

French Open’s in May.
Jack has his black socks
on the court in red clay.

The twins are running busy.
Mr. Snuggles is at teatime
on the patio with Christy,

and Junior . . . Lord heavens—
Where is Junior?
That boy always goes missing!

(Featured Image: THE ASSOCIATED PRESS)

Honeymoon Skinny Dip

Even in summer, the water was freezing at night.

“Don’t shrivel up on me.” I slipped out of my bikini bottoms, dangled them above his head.

“Let’s not flash anyone.” He winked and took my hand, drawing me further out to sea.

Thanksgiving in D.C.

“Oh and seven!”

Uncle Ben rocks off the couch to his feet. Pants unbuckled, hanging past his hips. He slaps the blue star on my chest.

“Ain’t no cowgirls here, son.” Turkey bits stuck between his teeth. “Go on back to Dallas.”

Neapolitan

I normally don’t reward bad behavior, but Bryan was a wolverine tonight, shredding my father-in-law’s prejudice tongue with the steel blade of his words in defense of his new friend, Ahmed.

“Kiss my ass, Grandpa!”

We took him to Ben and Jerry’s.

Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis
Image by © Royalty-Free/Corbis

Australian Open Tennis

My half-emptied water bottle droops to the side as the plastic melts. Water leaks from my ice towel, sizzling in puddles on the court. He tosses the ball up, serves 142mph down the center. I let it pass. Anything for a breeze.