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Show 277 Snapshot: The Cup By Our Youngest Son Silence permeated the house as it always had. I reached for the mug, its black plastic handle eluded my grasp. I climbed one step higher on the pantry cupboards to try again. Still couldn't quite reach. I bent down, and leapt up tipping the handle of it just enough to change the balance so that the mug began to fall. It went right past my hand. I know that time doesn't stand still for anything. It can't. But at this moment it did. The mug froze in midair just out ofthe reach of my small hands. My face was racked with a horror of what was about to come. It fell faster than I could move until it crashed with a crack that broke the silence. Next would come the series of embedded movements, movements seared into my young muscles by sheer repetition. My feet stung as they hit the cold concrete floor in the kitchen. I ran to where my mother sat. Her arms already drawn to her chest. Her legs bent under her wheelchair. She began to shudder. I put the brakes on the wheelchair so that the shaking wouldn't move her around the house. "I'm sorry" I whispered. My father came hustling into the kitchen with a look of both rage and worry on his face. "What happened?" he asked, trying his best to remain composed. |