On Saturdays,
we rise with the sun.
I am dressed in my best dress,
next to you in tattered tee.

We pack into the Jeep:
ma and her girl, father and his son.
With the infinite Pacific on our right,
we speed down Route 1.
You ride shotgun,
as light spilling over the horizon
knocks salty sleep from our eyes.

You win the teddy bear prize
for sending the lead puck the highest
with your Carnivàle mallet—
I didn’t get to try,
because Dad said my dress
was too white.

In the early hours of the night,
a couple on the street stops and beams,
saying we are a family
that ought to be in the magazines.
(It will take me many years
to understand what this means.)

After pork and baked beans,
mom buys me ice cream
and we window-shop
while you guys fish off the dock
and talk about things
that mom and I find silly.
When we reconvene,
it is time to leave.

You sit with me in the back seat,
and as I nod into sleep,
I see Dad pat your knee,
gifting you with a smile—
one that he has never given me.