My brother taught me to shimmy up street poles. At five, I was a quick study. I raised my arms high overhead, clutched the cool metal one hand over the other, stretched myself up. My legs wrapped around the pole like a pretzel. Squeezing, I pushed down with my legs. My hands inched higher and higher, pulling me upward. At the top, I proudly slapped the sign, “Oak Street.” I loosened my grip on the pole. Kept my legs wrapped tight as I slid down. A strange sensation tickled where my legs met. I climbed the pole lots that summer.
Sally Simon lives in the Catskills of New York. Her writing has appeared in After the Pause, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere. Find her online at sallysimonwriter.com.