The Day the Sun Set by Gaby Roman

FIRST PLACE

The Day the Sun Set by Gaby Roman

My family was a sunny day.

Everyone slipping into roles, soaking sunrays on Saturdays.

My mom was a radio

Her laugh filling the air with a melodic pauses and snorts. Her voice soothed the flowers and quieted the birds. Her tongue spoke a language so delicate filled with rolled r’s and loud familiarity.

My dad was a grill.

His hands were spatulas, carefully flipping carnes and constantly poking at chicken. His sweat evaporated into smoke that rose out of a stone chimney. The air would smell of meat, slowly rising into the sky until the clouds became hungry.

My sister was the shady tree in the backyard.

Her arms beckoning you to play. Her body softly swaying to the rhythm of the wind. She would quell thirst through cups filled with the fanciest hose water found. Her feet following her across the yard, leaving footprints of innocence and joy.

I didn’t know what I was.

My head could’ve been a glass of lemonade, attracting the buzz of mosquitos. My hands could’ve been paper napkins, absorbing messes, wiping sweat off of dripping foreheads. My body could’ve been an umbrella, one of those big ones at a family table you see on a home magazine. Spreading my arms around my family, tightly holding on.

My family was the sunset.

Packing up everything back into the house, wiping down surfaces. Coming to an end. The radio would be unplugged. The grill would be turned off. The tree would absorb no more sunlight. Red, orange, yellow, pink, purple would all paint the sky, expanding over long horizons, capturing memories in color.