MEG,
BETH, AND JESSICA RABBIT
The clarion call of birthdays
sounds through the summer months,
the family gathering at one house
or another to honor and celebrate
the lives of the old and newly born.
Birthday spankings, barbeque,
summer salads, cold pasta
dishes, and cake, washing
it all down with cold Pepsi,
lemonade and beer, each
an integral part of each
birthday menu, set in stone
and passed down from
generation to generation.
The cards get set out
on the kitchen table, the
battleground ground of
five hundred, your dad
and Uncle Honey Dumper
surveying and sizing up
the opposition, while the
rest gather in the living
room, Meg and Beth
ready to perform.
My mom sits with the
poise drilled into her
by the nuns that practically
raised her, your mom
sitting with all the aplomb
of rough and tumble
Rice Street, settling
comfortably in her chair.
The two Chanteuse sisters,
ages nine and six,
approach our gathering
and announce their
intent to entertain. Their
repertoire drawn largely
from the shows they watch,
we wonder with some
expectation of being
serenaded with the best
of “My Little Pony” or
“Strawberry Shortcake.”
They gather each, two
balloons, which they
insert under their shirts,
the sheer volume stretching
their shirt fabric to the
maximum. Beads of
perspiration form on my
brow like a crown, as
my little girls are transformed
into bra-busting broads.
With hands on their hips
they project Jessica Rabbit
down to her sultry strut,
singing, “Why don’t you
do right”. My mother politely
smiles, your mom laughs
with delight and you roll
your eyes. Perhaps Jessica
Rabbit was correct. She
was not bad, she was
just drawn that way.
© 2015. The Book Of Ruth, Deacon
Bob Wagner OFS. All Rights Reserved.
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