At the picnic many years ago

At the 4th of July picnic many years ago, visiting our mother’s older sister in Indianapolis, I was grateful for the shorts I wore over the too-tight, magenta one-piece I had to borrow from my younger cousin, T. My older brother looked like a different boy - an American boy - wearing a brand new baseball cap with a big, stiff bill, a gift he had received from our aunt. There was a patch of dry grass underneath our flannel picnic blanket, the other side of which was the same material tents were made from. The blanket still smelled artificially fresh, like a dryer sheet. At home in Taiwan, where nothing ever dried thoroughly, blankets and towels either smelled like mold or mothballs.

The spread of other families’ picnics: Entire sheet cakes iced with frosting to resemble the American flag. Misshapen sleeves of Wonder bread that had been smushed on the car ride over. Tubs of potato salad with the price tag sticker on the plastic cap. Bowls of seedless green grapes with snappy skin. Moms in sleeveless tops and shorts that revealed veins beneath the translucent skin behind their knees. T, always reaching for my hand, so that I had to keep my hands occupied, nibbling on cold corn and triangles of watermelon, or sticking them in my pockets, or reaching for my brother. I could sense the not unpleasant smell of charcoal settling into the strands of my hair. The indiscriminate sounds of laughter and conversation skimming across the surface of the lake. 

Suddenly, the distinct rustle of energy being disturbed, collective attention turned towards the general direction of urgency. A scream, followed by figures darting to and fro. My brother running towards the commotion to get a better look, while my legs planted more firmly into the ground. T reached for my hand and this time, I let her take it, relieved to have a reason to pretend not to be scared. Between people rushing by, I caught a glimpse of the man who had caught on fire.  A flame must have jumped from out of the grill and latched onto him. The fire was on his back, like a toddler getting a piggy-back ride he didn't deserve. People were yelling at the man. He was still a ways from the lake, but he was moving toward it. The water looked still and far away. He dropped down onto his knees, like he was pleading for help, laid down into a fetal position on his side.  And then he began to roll towards the lake.  The people who were yelling were now yelling and nodding their heads, making big circular motions with their arms, like they could wind him up faster. As he rolled, the fire was buried into the ground. 

I remembered how, the night before, coming out of the shower with my hair still wet, getting passed the phone and hearing Mom’s voice on the other end – hollow, because of the time difference – but confident and unbothered by the distance that separated us.