Slippage

YVONNE CANNON

Everything dates from 1964, I’ve thought often, sometimes
mistakenly. We bought a KitchenAid dishwasher
and a Maytag that year and our sturdy Plymouth.
That’s when my husband finished our kitchen remodel
I recalled, but he said I was wrong, it was 1967,
when China exploded the hydrogen bomb. 

In 1964 our firstborn daughter turned eleven.
We watched Ed Sullivan, large head welded 
to thick neck, introduce the fabulous Beatles 
through barely moving lips. Our daughter 
bought Beatles LPs, named her kitten Ringo, 
and vowed when she grew up she’d marry Paul. 

I thought JFK was killed in 1964, but my boss
reminded me it was just before 
Thanksgiving 1963; we’d seen the ticker tape
winding around the savings and loan, repeating
endlessly, “The President has been shot.”

Earlier than 1964: Sputnik I, tumbling
among constellations; MLK Jr.’s dream
that hovered above us in heated August air
until September, when it perished,
along with four little girls at Sunday school.

In 1964, nobody we loved died. That summer
we drove north to Mt. Lassen, our youngest 
carsick only once. Late snow ploughed off the mountain
into glorious drifts that towered over our Plymouth.
We parked and romped on the snowy slope, warmed
by July, our three daughters clad in shorts. 

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