“we counted the birds off instead,” by Michelle Bailat-Jones

Deviled eggs, our mothers told us, that is what the men would want on a day like today. We woke at dawn, for there were cousins coming and neighbors and children. Our dresses grew limp from all the boiling. Some of us took the time to change before the cars started rolling up the back field—tires crunching, horns squawking—some of us ran outside anyway, grateful for the cool air on our faces.

Over at the creek, tree branches tssked their fingers at us in the eleven o’clock wind. You said there would be ants, swatting already at your skirt, smoothing and pulling at the darts, and I wished I’d chosen a floral print, too.

The men carried their bottles and blankets and footballs and jackets. Their hair was combed, their shirts open at the collar. They were forgetting the children already, shouting only half-hearted rules and reminders. Watching them dash and tumble in the grass and the weeds, then vanish at the wood in a line of bright heads. Continue reading →