14.
I remember parade days. I remember the creak and slam of the screen door, the reach of shade on the lawn, and all of it happening in the yard of the house right on Main Street at the center of the universe.
I remember Grandpa being Master of Ceremonies for the entire world, tossing horseshoes to win, hitting badminton birdies over the clothesline and clear to the sky, roasting his dinner to perfection while squatting next to the fire pit he must have built the very first night he invented fire.
I remember marching bands that seemed they would never end, tassels swinging by on boots, the twirl of batons and the whistle of short skirts. A slow crawl of convertibles waving too, but by then nobody cared.
I remember the big boys climbing up on the roof of the garage to watch it all boom past, sweating cans of cold soda they gulped and tossed with a clatter on the driveway. The loud strut of their bragging, my own small wishing they'd notice me but feeling glad when they didn't.
I remember twilight, strings of cousins chasing their shadows where the yellow streamed from the kitchen windows. Overheard apron and dishwater talk, the things I knew I shouldn't try to listen to but wanted desperately to know.
I remember one old bathroom in that house, and nothing to do but wait if you needed to use it on a summer day when everyone in the world was there, and a parade was drumming by, and marshmallows were catching fire if you weren't careful.
The pause of crickets, and by nighttime everything was so perfect it was as if the whole world were lighted by just the sparkler in your hand. The sleepy drift of laughter across dark grass. I remember summer.