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"Green Leaf Volatiles" by Kerin McAleese

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I can still smell the freshly cut lawn by the hands of my grandfather. Pa always took

care of us, even after they both left. First, it was his son to hit the road. Ironically, I

even think his name was Jack. We don't really even talk about him now. We used to,

a lot. But after my mom dropped, we all kind of shut up about the whole thing. It

was just too tempting, you know? For all of us to sit around and feel sorry for

ourselves. I don't mean we never did, but when we did鈥� we really did. When Pa

would find out just exactly what was going on, he'd take us all outside. We would all

take turns mowing that damn lawn right out of existence. All eight of us, we all got

our share, 鈥渁s equal as a vote鈥� he'd say. When we were young, it seemed like Pa was

stronger than the thunder that crackled over our heads at night. It never seemed

like he missed 鈥淛ack,鈥� not one bit. But we sure did, and when we did, Pa would

warm us right up like the sun. It didn't matter that we didn't have a momma, and it

didn't matter that Jack ran off. What mattered was taking turns steering the wheel

while Pa hit the pedal, steady. Until one of us curled our fist up real tight; thumb on

the outside, just like he had taught us, and attacked the poor air around us. Then

we'd go real fast. So fast that we'd laugh the sorrow right clean out of our souls. He

did this eight times, sometimes more. Especially on holidays, that man must've

gone through a whole damn gas station. But we never noticed, and he never made

a point of making us. All I know now is, all eight of us never missed out on a damn

thing, not a thing at all.

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