Vintage Orlando
Contemplating a pitcher of ice tea
Glass stacked with cubes
when one word
came to mind
LIPTON.
Orlando.
Suntan lotion on her legs
stretched out
clinking her glass
pouring another one...
"Benny can't come over anymore."
I was 12.
Latchkey kid, but we didn't call it that.
Mom working in another town.
Dad working in another town.
My brother.
2.
My responsibility.
"Why? Why not?"
A long sip.
Head back.
Throat bobbing.
"He cleaned your house..."
Yeah.
I organized the neighbor kids.
"He don't even clean his own room."
So I wonder now.
Does anyone still drink Lipton anymore?
Or is it another Vintage Memory.
Along with everything else.
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Author's Note
This prose poem came upon me as I was thinking about the passion fruit herbal tea in my fridge on the warmest day of our Los Angeles Labor Day Weekend. And that led to this brand name word which led me to this strong memory.
I've never written about that excruciating time of my life when my mother left our father, and hauled us around Florida for months until she finally landed back in the town where I was born.
Our sojourn began in Orlando. In the summer.
As a 12-year-old latchkey kid on the brink of puberty, I was tossed around daily by various events and strangers. But this memory of mobilizing the neighborhood kids to help me clean the house while 60s music blared from my transistor radio...and this boy's mother giving me the news that he was off limits from now on, while reclining in her front yard catching some rays...has stuck with me as emblematic of the rest of my life as an organizer.
No matter how icy the reactions might be.
Like. Yeah, lightness over dark, a perfect blend.
Sweet, Mathew. Thanks for getting it... And then some.
Great ambiance here. And I do believe Lipton is still on the shelves. *
Thank you for the compliment, Beate! Yes, I was contemplating a glass of Lipton's when I decided to write this. (Behind the scenes musings: Am I old fashioned? Or just cheap? I inherited a HUGE box of the teabags from my neighbor who passed away at the age of 90...)
Adding to those questions: Or just prone to nostalgia?