“Aaaaannnndddd UP!” Father shouted, swinging his arms, his daughter’s tiny fist clasped in his. Little Clara squealed as her feet lifted off the ground, rocking in between her two parents. As soon as her soles touched down on the cobblestone road, she cried “Again! Again!” Her mother and father had no choice but to oblige as they walked.
At last, they made it to their squat little house, only one little window daring to peak out above the grey roof tiles, which signaled the attic’s only source of light. While Father brought Clara over to their small rope swing, Mother went inside to collect their agreed upon supplies for the picnic. Father pushed Clara on the swing, pollen from the tree getting trapped in his long, blond eyelashes. The breeze from soaring through the sky gave a much welcome relief from the day’s heat to the little girl as she laughed.
“Look, Clara, look.” Father gently stopped the swing from his position crouched on the ground and pointed up at the window. Mother had appeared, a thick pink-and-white quilt tucked under her arm, and was making faces at them, her wingers waggling by her ears for extra emphasis. Clara giggled and stuck out her tongue with her eyes squeezed shut in return.
Mother disappeared from the window, and a moment later, they heard the front door bang shut, and Mother was striding across the lawn towards them, a wicker basket hanging from her other arm. Father took this as his cue to scoop Clara up and place her on his shoulders. The little girl giggled and shrieked, grabbing fistfuls of his pale-yellow hair in her small fingers to hold on. Father reached up and ruffled her ginger locks in retaliation.
Mother laughed and took Father’s hand. “Having fun, baby?” she asked playfully.
Clara nodded vigorously, making her curls bounce around her face. “Yup!”
That earned more laughter from both her parents. Mother kissed Father’s cheek, then skipped ahead back towards the side of the house, occasionally turning back and encouraging Clara with a “Come on, baby!”
Eventually, with lots of shouts of glee and laughing, they made it to the set of heavy wooden doors set into the ground beside the faded blue wall of their house. Clara got passed to Mother as Father opened the doors, dropped down into the cellar, and went to work moving the barrels around to clear a space for their picnic. Mother bounced the girl in her arms and would point out butterflies and dandelions and sparrows, then ask her daughter to name them.
Just when Clara was getting tired of the summer heat, Father called them down with a triumphant “Done!” Mother passed Clara down into his arms, which were sticky with sweat, while she jumped into the cellar herself, tossing the quilt and basket down first.
Once the blanket was spread on the cool stone ground and the family was seated on it, Mother pulled about twenty candles out of the basket. “Wat those fo?” Three-year-old Clara asked, pointing.
“Watch,” Mother answered simply, then went to work, setting them on the floor not covered by the quilt, on barrels, and one on top of the basket.
“Now the magic starts,” she informed her daughter in a hushed whisper as Father stood up once more and closed the doors, plunging them into darkness. But before Clara could whimper, there was the sound of snapping fingers, and all the candles blazed to life at once.
“Ooooooooooh,” Clara marveled, gazing at the nearest candle. Then, the sound of the basket being opened again drew her attention back to the feast that was being spread before her: jam-filled cookies and lemonade.
The three of them dug into their picnic, with each of them occasionally pushing the cookies into each other’s mouths. Both the girls found immense pleasure in doing it to Father especially. Despite the flames, it was much cooler in the cellar then it was outside, and they stayed inside playing hide-and-seek until the sun went down, long after all the food was gone.
By the time they were heading back inside, Clara on her father’s shoulders and rubbing her eyes sleepily, the little girl had completely forgotten about her mother’s show of power as she lit the candles. Over the next year, she also forgot how Father would light the hearth with just a thought, or how Mother would place her hand on the stove while cooking without getting burned. It never seemed important, not really.
If only she had remembered.