South Side Stories
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By Ed Komenda.
SATURDAY MORNING, SUN SHINING
I jumped into the bed, tickled her neck, dug fingers into her stomach, jabbed her armpit. Mom pushed me off the edge, tired from the graveyard shift at Barney’s, where she worked as a waitress. I kept on her until she grabbed me with alligator hands covered with pink eczema patches. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Those were the mornings Dad made his famous breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, toast. We talked about The Wizard of Oz,
SATURDAY MORNING, SUN SHINING
I jumped into the bed, tickled her neck, dug fingers into her stomach, jabbed her armpit. Mom pushed me off the edge, tired from the graveyard shift at Barney’s, where she worked as a waitress. I kept on her until she grabbed me with alligator hands covered with pink eczema patches. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe. Those were the mornings Dad made his famous breakfast. Bacon, eggs, fried potatoes, toast. We talked about The Wizard of Oz,
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