SLAMMERSMACK by Kat Magendie

The summer we installed screen doors on the front and back doors of our log home, I said, "Let me check them out." What I wanted to check was the slammability. For what is the use of a screen door if it does not slam properly?

That scrang sound of the spring comes first as I open the screen door. I step out and then away from the door, and let it fly shut. SLAMMERSMACK. Perfect.

And, as the slammersmack echoes over the mountain, I am immediately a kid again, running outside in my pedal pushers and barefeet, my flip flops left in my room so I can feel the grass beneath my feet. Watermelon eaten in the grass and then spitting the seeds at my brothers, and they spit theirs back. Lightening bugs wink and fly, zip and glow. Summer and no school. Hot wind and the ice cream truck that my brothers and I and all the neighborhood kids hear coming from miles and miles away. We rush in to grab our nickels and dimes and hold them in our sweaty palms. Then he's here, stops for us kids. And we crowd around his truck, and he opens the freezer and we feel the cold air whoosh out at us. I'd already decided I wanted my Flintstone’s Push Up, and he hands it to me, and I let loose of my sweat and dirt-soaked coins. Trade. Even Steven. Off I go, push up dripping down my arm, and nothing else is better.

We played well into dark after supper was over, our armpits full of sweat, and our neck creases filled with dirt. My skin turned brown and I had little birdtrack freckles across my nose and I had secrets, secrets that I forgot about as I played. Secrets that don’t matter anymore. I walked, my toes like corn nibblets, and under Grinning Moon, I blew a kiss to the night.

All this memory from the slamming of a screen door. So, can I simply be grateful for a screen door echoing SLAMMERSMACK? Sure I can. I am.