We are on a rickety wagon in a field of pumpkins. I don't know how old I am, or the city, province, country. My parents, brother and myself huddle together. It's chilly. My father is wearing a grey jacket, the one that he now uses only to barbecue, since he doesn't want to get his other jackets to smell of steaks and beer. It was brighter then, must have been almost new.
The wagon is stopped, because it is the end of the ride. Flashbacks are funny in the way that there is no context, no beginning or end. My parents disembark first, quickly hopping down to the ground, the way grown-ups effortlessly do. I stand on the wagon, anticipating. Only after my father motions me to follow his lead does it become apparent that those guiding hands were not helping me this time. Only while looking back at the past do I realize that this is the first time I would have to do something by myself.
"Bend your knees when you land, or else you'll break your legs!"
He is joking, of course (I hope).
I practice bending my knees on the spot, to make sure I don't forget how in the critical moment. My dad is eyeing for my attention by pantomiming the same action. For an outsider, this probably looked like some sort of invisible see-saw.
As I hit the ground, I bend my knees to excess and my bum touches the dirt. I'm relieved, empowered.
