Lisa Geichman Prosek

Money’s tight these days, but I needed some summer footwear. So, when I heard about $2.50 shoes for sale at a widely known specialty-clothing store, I had to pick up a pair.

Now, every morning I slide my feet into the plain rubbery black flip-flops. The distinct sound they make as I walk around the house takes me back…

An early June day when I’m a skinny, seven-year-old, soon-to-be second grader.

As soon as I wake, I put my dark brown hair in a messy ponytail and throw on mismatched shirt and shorts. On my way to the breakfast table, my feet grab the green flip-flops Dad bought at the dime store over the weekend. I pretend to eat Froot Loops for a few minutes and then flip-flop out the front to see if Terri’s awake next door. She’s a year younger than I am.

We swing in silence in her backyard, still waking up. After a while, front-toothless, lisping Terri says, “My dad’s taking us to a baseball game tonight. We’re gonna eat hot dogs.”

She knows I’m envious. All my dad ever does in the evenings is work out in the yard.

“That’s okay. I’ll ride bikes with Kathy.” I know this makes Terri jealous, but probably not jealous enough not to love all those hot dogs.

At noon I flip-flop back to my house for the quick lunch the babysitter’s made and zoom back outside for the best part of the day.

The entire afternoon focuses on waiting for The Ice Cream Man. Terri and I sit cross-legged on the hard cool cement of her front porch playing a game of Trouble so we can make sure we’ll be first in line. No noise except pressing the Pop O Matic to roll the die and moving our men.

“You’re cheatin’! Terri yells when she’s lost track of the game.

To keep peace, we tie a long pink plastic jump rope to the garage-door handle and twirl for each other while the sun bakes us.

Then we hear it… No lyrics, but I know the song:

Do your ears hang low?
Do they wobble to and fro?
Can you tie them in a knot?
Can you tie them in a bow?

I drop the jump rope and run as fast as I can. Flop-flop! Flip-flop! As I travel, I dig my hand into my shorts pocket to find the money. I trip on the driveway asphalt but catch myself just in the nick of time to avoid getting a skinned face.

”Grape Popsicle and two Pixy Stix,” I say breathlessly, smacking my sweaty coins down on the truck’s window counter.

It’s a double Popsicle, and I don’t even have to share it with my brother. By the time I eat to the sticks, purple juice runs down my arms and plops in puddles on my feet, staining my new green flip-flops. I flick my ankles hoping to get rid of the sticky drops.

As soon as the Popsicle’s gone, I open one of the Pixy Stix and pour a bunch of the tangy-sweet powder into my mouth. I cough when it chokes me, and out comes an aromatic cloud.

All of the other neighborhood kids gobble their daily mid-afternoon treats, too. We’re totally lost in the moment. Nothing else matters.