It's not my feet atop yours dancing the polka

at Cousin Patsy's wedding. It's not the photo of us sitting

on the couch that shows our identical chins and slouch

to our backs. It's the mustard, Dad, the plain yellow mustard

that brings you back to me, every time. One taste

and we're at Soldier Field, wind blowing off Lake Michigan

like boos from the rival fans. Season tickets, home games,

our long walk from the car to the stadium,

Section A, upper deck, seats hard and cold.

Though bundled in long underwear, two layers

of woolen socks in thick-soled boots, we had to stomp

our feet to keep the circulation going.

We'd yell over the crowd at the concession man,

"Over here, some dogs!" And we waited

as he pulled them out of his silver box, watched

the steam fade, seat by seat, as they were passed

down to us. By the time we took a bite, ice cold.

They were the best dogs we ever ate, and those,

the best days — just the Bears, the crowd, and you

smiling at me, your mouth rimed in mustard.

 

© by Donna Pflueger.

Used with the author's permission.