Little Debbie

To the left of the door that leads into the sun room where the A/C window unit cranks all day (because it’s 100 degrees without humidity, easy). The sun room surrounded by windows with lake front views, and exposed brick where I’ve scraped my knees countless time. The room with a daybed made for napping. The room with sliding glass doors that we locked for laughs as someone tries to rush inside from the afternoon thunderstorm. The room with creaky wicker furniture that have the softest floral cushions that seemd to soothe any sunburn. The room with boat carpet floors — blue with green flecks — that matched the floor of the pontoon tied to the dock outside. The room with the circular table and plastic yard chairs that always had some remnants of a game: rummy, solitaire, yahtzee, poker, aggravation.

To the left of that door that leads to the sun room is a cabinet. Yellow laminate counter tops. Dark wood. Black hammered pulls. And the last one on the right, in the very bottom corner, is where we stash portraits of a sweet little girl in a blue rimmed sun hat. And when you pull that cabinet door open it creaks so Nanny knows when you’re sneaking one, but if Papa hears he doesn’t tell.

And if I were to peel apart the clear plastic wrap of a nutty buddy or swiss cake roll right now, I would smell that wood cabinet, and then I’d drag my feet across that rough carpet and I’d peel my thighs off the plastic chairs while leaning back against my towel that’s still damp from a morning dip. And I’d say “deal me in” when taking a bite.