Yours Truly 2016 / Cascadia College / Bothell, WA | Page 13

Childcare
At 7:24 every morning the decrepit
orange van lurches into the barren parking
lot of Dick Taylor Park. Blue jays erupt from
trees as the metallic squeal of tired hinges
fills the early morning sky. Falling from the
van’s belly, we are lemmings shooting off
a cliff. Five of us, ranging in age from four
to fourteen, make up the Malcolm Clan. The
extended cargo van belongs to my parents.
The park belongs to us.

There are no goodbyes.

Icy breath from our unbrushed mouths is
as visible as the exhaust spewing from the
rear of the square monster as it maneuvers
left and our parents disappear. An internal
debate: the instincts for food and shelter
versus the instincts for physical and
emotional safety. Distracting ourselves, we
pull icy fingers to trembling lips and inhale
from imaginary cigarettes. We take in long
drags and challenge each other to exhale
the most frost.

No one chases the van.

Our bodies slowly warm as we race to
the playground, past metal toys which lost
interest to us long ago. We dig labyrinths
into the low bushes, hiding from the morning
cold and the afternoon heat. Fathers join

Elizabeth Hunter
their well-kept children at the playground
for story time and soccer practice—unaware
of our spying. Mothers regard us with
disgust—shooing away their young when we
approach.
We bully everyone we come across,
including each other. Tennis courts transform
into battlefields where we wage violent and
unmerciful wars. We are exotic monkeys,
swinging confidently from lofty trees, dozing
on thick branches, picking unripe fruit,
unseen by the humans. Empty stomachs
growl ferociously as greedy fingers shove
sour crab apples into mouths already full to
maximum capacity.
Anyone would be jealous of such an
extravagant feast.
At 6:45 every night, our parents return
to retrieve their burden. Although none of us
has a watch, we have devised methods for
telling time, including temperature, activity
level at the park, hunger, and traffic. A
knuckle-shaped scar beneath my brother’s
right eye serves as a permanent reminder
that tardiness will not be tolerated.

We are always early.

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