Saturday's Storyteller: "I wanted to savor it, but it was just too good to resist."

by Belinda Roddie

I wanted to savor it, but it was just too good to resist. So I ate it all in a couple of bites. I sat down on the nearest plastic chair to let my stomach settle. All the flavors hit like the aftershock of an earthquake. Chocolate and raspberry and spun sugar. An incorrigible tornado of sweetness.

Luckily, there had only been one slice left of Grandma Wendy's signature cake, so it was impossible for me to be tempted to get more. The family picnic was winding to a close at this point; my parents were busy cleaning up the main food table, and Uncle Charles was cracking open the last couple of beers, handing a bottle to my cousin Dwayne and walking with him down to the creek. We had opted for a barbecue in the neighborhood park, since my mom was still renovating her backyard, tearing out the old lawn and replacing it with desert-appropriate fare. I never thought I'd like cacti so much until the drought hit us harder than any other region.

I wasn't expected to help out much with chores. For starters, I was the youngest person there, so my relatives tended to just leave me alone and let me stew in my own youth like a bubbling cauldron. It was kind of ironic, given that my father always joked that the children, teenagers, and college-age people should do the cleaning and cooking while the "old fogies" put their feet up and relaxed. "They're spry and fit. They can handle it," he'd say. Or, at least, he'd say it in reference to my sister Nicole, or my brother Elijah, who could lift two hundred pounds and not break a sweat. As for me, I had a bum leg, so I couldn't stand up for long periods of time without the help of a cane. My trusty "sorcerer's stave," as I called it, sat propped against my knee, its silver top carved in the glorious shape of a dragon's head. It had been custom made by a dear friend of mine.

The sun was half set by the time my family decided to walk back to my mother's house, so I hobbled along with them and staggered across the dilapidated gravel and broken asphalt back to our cul-de-sac. It was April and hot as a fat man's scrotum already - ninety degrees in Phoenix. We were deep into the pelvic region of Tucson, so we had a little more space between everybody. Still, I stopped for a moment when passing Aimee's house.

From what I remembered, she still lived there with her mom. I wondered if she was still a good kisser. I also wondered if she ever dated "another cripple," as she called it.

I exhaled, worked out some kinks in my neck, and pushed my ways up the porch steps, where my father was already sitting with a glass of wine. He waved goodbye to Grandma Wendy as she got into her Mini Cooper. Then he gestured for me to join him on the rusty red patio bench.

"Have a good time?" he asked.

I sighed. "Sure," I said. "I'm surprised we've had sixteen in a row."

"Your mom's stubborn. She always finds a way to get us all together. Even when your brother's in Augusta."

"I don't get why he decided on Maine."

"He likes lobster?"

I laughed, and my father held up his glass.

"You want any wine?" he asked.

"No, thanks," I replied. I watched the top of the sun's golden bald head disappear behind the roof of Aimee's house.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Roddie.