The Flintstones of Michigan
Women suffer different from men. Least that’s my take on it. Even the way we bleed is different. Take my Bam-Bam for instance. He only bleeds every so often, like when he shakes his fist at the moon and howls, forgetting he’s holding a knife to cut up rabbit for our campfire dinner. But women, we bleed every month, all quiet-like. When the cramps are real bad, I use his arm as my pillow, look up at the stars, and think about my ma.
One of my favorite memories is the time I turned eight. I reminded her that on her next birthday, I’d be four years older than her, because she only had a birthday every four years, on February 29th.
“Just you wait, missy miss,” I said, putting one hand on my hip and wagging my finger at her with the other. “When I’m big and you’re little, there’ll be big trouble in this river city for you.”
She laughed, told me to pucker up, and gave me a big coral smooch right on my lips, so’s I could wear her favorite lipstick, too. We skipped down the sidewalk holding hands, heading for the diner to share a double dip bubblegum ice cream waffle cone — my favorite. On the way home, we leaped into rain puddles. She always let me jump in the deepest one to make the biggest splash. She also tried to hide the sadness behind her eyes, but I saw it. I might have been slow, but I wasn’t dumb.
