The Last Sprinkler Dance
by Amy Stumpfl
We emerged through slamming screen doors
that our fathers never got around to fixing.
Bright colored blossoms in pigtails – all arms and legs,
pushing the season in sensible, well-worn swimwear.
The cool air shocked still-tan skin, but the low sun was kind
as we dodged icy droplets and shared freezer-burned Bomb Pops.
Goosebumps glistened as we giggled and squealed,
not knowing this would be our last dance beneath the sprinklers.
Soon, Barbies would give way to boys and broken hearts.
and friendships would fade and scatter with the leaves.
But for now, our world felt safe, easy and unscripted.
Every day was a do-over, and home was as close
as the next slamming screen door.
Amy Stumpfl is a freelance writer, an avid reader and reformed drama queen. She reviews theater for The Tennessean, and is obsessed with her marvelous husband and children, as well as Nashville’s amazing arts scene.