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Hank Stalnaker, the First
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Memories Hank Stalnaker came home on leave
that summer.
“Stay away from him,” my mother said,
“he’s a sailor.”
But Hank was a good ol’ boy,
raised in the south just like us.
I was walking to Sadie’s house when
he pulled up in that shiny red convertible,
top down. “Let’s go to Miami,” he
shouted.
“Okay,” I shouted back. I climbed over
the door, “let’s go!”
We stopped at Shorty’s Market and
called Sadie, who called Mama and told
her I was sleeping over at Sadie’s house.
We headed east on 92 and before I knew
it we were headed down the east coast.
Hank reached over and shook my hair
loose, said he wanted to see it blowin’ in
the wind. The summer heat was almost
unbearable (or it could have been Hank
...he could do that to you).
I opened two bottles of beer,
and settled back to taste my
little slice of heaven.
We spent the night on the beach
beneath the prettiest moon I’ve ever
seen, breathing the warm salt air.
It was hot that night (or it could have been
Hank ... he could do that to you).
It was a night I wished would last
forever (in a way, it did).
~
Last night I tasted that hot summer night
again. I met a man who was a lot like
Hank, same gentle, southern voice,
same laughter, same tease.
For a brief moment, I was in the red
convertible again, smelling salt air and
bay rum cologne, and the stale smoke of
a Marlboro man.
