Trolleys

By Trista Dominiqu

My mother would take us
for rides on the Lynwood
trolley when I was small.
My brother and I lathered
in lotion our Newberry flip
flops smacking against our
heels as we got off, hitting the
blacktops pavement.

We walked a few blocks
until we hit Hams Park, my
mother would make us aliens
out of jacaranda flowers , and we
thought she was a magician.
The green mansion that over
looked the park, was the
setting for many ghost stories
among us kids of the playground.

Mom watched us play a keen eye
on our lighter bodies standing out
amongst a sea of black and tan
ones. Oblivious to her protective
eyes we played in the sand with
our one hour friends. Promises of
an ice cream at Hams Parlor used
to pull us away from our make
believe.

Walking back the way we
had came, less excited than
before. Stopping for our treat before
the next journey began.
We never took the trolley on our way
back to my grandmother’s house.
I just remember bursting through the
security gated door , pleading to jump
in the pool.

That’s how I remember
my first summer of remembering.
Lynwood trolleys, flip flops, Hams park,
always ice cream, and my grandmothers
swimming pool.

What is lost to me is the exhaustion
my mother felt at taking two
children on an outing in July without a car.
The cat calls the howls and whistles she
received as she strolled with us in her Guess
stone washed jeans.

I didn’t know why some
people on one corner wore red, and on the
next they wore blue, but they were never
worn together. These are not things you recall
when your little. Its only until later that the
smaller details are noticed.