Lucky Clover

Having just smelled the musky scent of a recent rain, while on my daily walk in the yard, I was reminded of the memories from my eight-grade summer. It was just yesterday I was searching for four-leaf clovers under the big oaks on our front lawn, always wishing for the luck of hopeless romance to find me. The damp grass tickled my toes when I ran barefoot chasing after the clouds, and trying to find the double rainbows hidden among them. It was the year of so many changes. I had decided that my favorite color was green instead of purple. I tried fresh-cut sweet potato fries from the county fair for the first time, enjoyed the smell of my father’s grill on weekends, and most of all I got my first kiss from Pat, the boy who lived next door and who I called Patrick when I was mad.

Now, as I lay here flashing a series of reminiscent images against a beige wall, the fifteen-inch TV outside my maximum-security cell catches my attention. I sip on yesterday’s cold brew, while I listen to the news anchor reporting the 20th anniversary of Abigail Murphy, a local teenager who brutally slaughtered her parents, younger brother, and boyfriend, after a summer cookout in July. I grin in celebration and count my blessings that I didn’t get the electric chair, so that I can hear I am still a legend. I guess my Jig isn’t up yet.