The Things You Dipped in Butter

There you were, a hot day, a long time ago, a picnic pavilion. A park, a big park, with a lake, a beach, not a sandy beach, but it was a beach. Maybe it was a state park, or Dad's company park, back when such things existed. Your family was there, just about everyone, some now gone, some seemingly still around and yet unaccounted for. They've forgotten you, intentionally or otherwise. A family reunion.

Not your mother's side, just your dad's. Uncle Willie and Uncle Ted and Aunt Bar and your cousin Sara without an 'h' that was your age but she always drove you nuts because when you turned 7 you were done playing house and playing with her stupid dolls.

And there are a lot of memories that have slipped away. There were hamburgers, and pie, summer pie. And there was a tub of butter, accompanying rolls, left to sit out in the August heat. Liquid.

A summer miracle, liquid butter. Cauliflower, carrots, broccoli. Tortilla chips, potato chips. The things you dipped in butter. Hamburgers, rolls. Swiss cheese, American cheese. Maybe a piece of Pecan pie. Everybody is at the lake.

Many years later, and you can still taste it.

Maybe that was the beginning of something.