"Garden Party" by Sara Castaneda
Ekphrastic prose in response to
Look, you can see it right over there. You can wave to us at midnight!
It was New Year’s Eve 1985. My mom was pointing out the Sheraton Hotel. You could see it from the second-floor balcony of our house. My oldest sister was 15, my middle sister, 13, and I was 11. My mom and dad were going to the Ricky Nelson concert that night, and they were staying at the Sheraton.
We were excited. We thought this concert would save their marriage. Our happy household had become hugely depressing with closed doors, whispered fights and dad sleeping on the couch. Of course, they thought we had no idea. But we did. Kids know.
A month ago, to everyone’s delight, Dad had pulled a Hail Mary. Ricky Nelson was coming to Dallas. Ricky was my mother’s teen idol, her biggest crush. My Dad came home from work and tossed two tickets to his concert on our kitchen table. Mom screamed like a teenager unhinged. It was the first glimpse I ever had of my mother before me. That she existed before I did. That she had been a teenager before she became Mom. I was embarrassed by her girlish outburst. I wanted to remind her who she was. And then again, I didn’t. It was charming for a minute. She was happy and so was my dad. She flung her arms around him. Was this what they used to be like?
The day of the concert, I sat on the counter in my parents’ master bathroom with my legs dangling over the side. My mom stood next to me in front of the mirror which stretched the length of the wall. We played Ricky Nelson songs; we both knew them all. She had sung them to us starting when we were babies as lullabies. I watched as she carefully applied her makeup. She was glorious and glamorous, like a movie star. She spritzed some perfume in the air and walked through its mist to catch its essence. She spritzed the floral cloud in the air for me, and I floated through its light rain just like my mother, I so wanted to be.
The phone rang. My mother and I thought nothing of it. My dad picked it up downstairs. it was James. James was part of the couple my parents were going to the concert with. He asked my dad if he’d seen the news.
No. my dad replied.
Well, we’re not going to the concert. Ricky’s plane crashed. He died. Concert’s canceled.
My Dad called my mom down to the kitchen where he’d put the phone down. The color had drained from his face. He whispered something in my mother’s ear. She let out a gasp.
Who told you that? she accused my dad.
James. He’s on the phone.
My mom picked up the phone. James put Cissy on. Now! Cissy…..
I could hear Cissy wailing on the other end of the line. And then my mom’s wailing mixed in with hers.
My poor Dad, who’d once been the hero, was now the odd man out. He put his hand on my mother’s shoulder. She quickly swatted his affection away.
Mike, Open the freezer. I have some homemade daiquiri in the plastic tub. Just made it yesterday. Pour me one. No, two. There’s plenty. That’s if somebody hasn’t gotten into it already.
I shrank back. We both knew who she was referring to. Me. My mom made daiquiri once a month and she let my sisters and I taste it. She told us we now knew what it tasted like, but it was only for grown-ups. My sisters followed the rules, but I really liked it. I didn’t know it had alcohol. All I knew was it tasted like the Grape Ice I got at Baskin Robbins after church on Sundays except it was lime. And I knew that in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep after the stress of being 10 or 11, the daiquiri tasted wonderful and helped me sleep. It made all my troubles disappear.
Sure enough, my dad scooped out a scoop with deeply lined finger trails. My mom let it cool to a slush and began giving herself a buzz and a brain freeze to forget the pain. I could relate.
My oldest sister told us to go to our rooms, but I stayed,
Did Mom know Ricky Nelson? I asked my oldest sister.
Yes, she said she was going to his concert.
But, I mean, did she know Ricky Nelson? Had she ever met him?
No, He’s famous. When would she have met him?
Then why is she so sad?
My sister sighed and told me again to go to my room. I walked away more disappointed and confused.
Later, I heard my mom’s crying subside into lonely, fragmented lyrics of Garden Party. I heard the stairs creak over my head as my dad carried her up to bed.
I couldn’t sleep. Was this plane crash the end of my parents’ marriage? Why was my mom so heartbroken? My dad’s hero dream had burnt out with a fiery end. I was mad at Ricky Nelson. I was mad at his plane. I was sad about the pain.
The house went quiet; I snuck into the kitchen. I opened the freezer. I pulled out the tub of daiquiri. I sat in front of the closed freezer door on our kitchen parquet floor. Barefoot in my nightgown, tub in my lap, our family dog came and sat next to me. I dipped my fingers and dragged them through the frozen lime ice, freezing and burning them at the same time. That familiar pain before the numb. Alone, I half-sang and hummed to my dog:
I went to a garden party
To reminisce with my old friends
A chance to share old memories
And play our song again…..
Sara Castaneda is a poet/writer. Her poetry collection, Underdog Bet, was published in 2025 by Pegasus/Vanguard Press. Her work has been featured in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Morsus Vitae and Space & Time Magazine. She is a contributor of poems and flash fiction in A Pot Of Basil, edited by Lorette Luzajic published by The Ekphrastic Review imprint. Sara lives in Dallas, TX with her husband, Scott. They are proudly owned by their dog and three cats.