Free All You Need Is Love by Emily Franklin Page B

by the sleeve like I used to do as a child when I wanted to change locations at the playground — an lead him to where I want to go.
    In light of my inappropriate jesting about my “hang out” place, Dad is thrilled beyond words to find that the place to which I was referring is the pole vaulting mat.
    “What’s so great about this place?” he asks as we stand at the edge of the thick, blue cushion.
    “Come on — can’t you see the intrinsic value?”
    “I’m too old,” Dad says.
    “Your loss, then,” I say, knowing Dad will follow me. I take a running jump and do a silly snow-angel in midair form leap and land on my back, protected by the matt. Dad pauses then does the same, landing on his back, upside from me and laughing. We lie there for a minute laughing, and then look up at the blue sky.
    “Another year,” Dad says, still looking skyward.
    My head is almost touching his head, and I reach up so I can take his hand. We watch the clouds move, shouting out their shapes like we did when I was a kid.
    “A thimble!” he says.
    “A unicorn!” I point and then blush — maybe I’m still a fifth grade girl if I’m still seeing flying horses in the sky. Then flying horses makes me think of the antique carousel on Martha’s Vineyard.
    “The state of Idaho,” Dad says.
    “Am I lame that I don’t even know what that looks like?” I ask. “Oh — hey — there’s a turtle with a top hat!”
    “Oh, I see that!” Dad says and we’re both very excited that we see the same cloud images. We pause for a minute. “I’m not sure what’s going to happen with Mable.”
    I don’t move or try to get a look at Dad’s face because I can tell he’s crying. “You mean you don’t know if she’s really better? I thought you just said we should be hopeful.”
    “Better is a loaded word, Love.”
    “So what’re you saying?” I squeeze his hand and wish we could go back to looking for thimbles or unicorns or Ferris wheels in the sky.
    “I’m saying let’s really enjoy what we have now,” he says and sobs hard enough that the mat shakes underneath us. After being quiet for a minute, the feelings start to overtake me and I cry, too. It’s so sad to see or hear a parent cry, especially when you feel the same sadness they do. It’s like the person who is supposed to reassure me can’t and we both know it.
    We stay like that for a few minutes until we’ve both gotten the tears out of our systems for now.
    “Here,” Dad says as we sit up. He hands me a granola bar.
    “Do you always travel with food?” I ask, my voice still shaky from the cryfest. I accept his oaty hand-out.
    “Actually, I do,” he says. “It’s an old habit. Once, your…” He pauses. “Once I was on a road trip and ran out of gas and had to walk nearly ten miles to a station. What bugged be most wasn’t the walk — I…I had good company. But I was so hungry. Since then I always carry a little snack with me. Even just a tiny thing…”
    “So that’s one of your life lessons to hand down? Always bring food?” I smile. First, Dad nods. Then he thinks of something and his face changes. “What?”
    “Nothing — it’s not the time.”
    “Dad — if there’s an issue or whatever, you should tell me. I mean, I know we’re having father-daughter time here but just say it.” I nudge him with my toe. “I know you’ve had something bothering you since I got back, you might as well tell me.” I’ve noticed that Dad’s been stoping himself from saying something — completing a thought during some of our discussions. Like right before we came to the track, he was on the verge of letting me in — but then he stopped.
    We reposition ourselves so that Dad is in the center of the mat, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He sits up looking at me while I sit on the edge of the mat with my legs dangling off, feet resting on the sandy grass below. It probably looks like I’m trying to escape.
    “Is there anything about