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Show a corner, we waited as he grew closer, watched his arms sweep like the broad beam of a lighthouse, screaming and laughing and hollering for back up. We played until someone got hurt, as they always did. Scott with a bent finger, me with a rug burn, sometimes Bryan, the littlest one, angry at being bowled over. Be a monster, Daddy. Again, again. When my mother called us from upstairs, Bedtime. Brush your teeth, she was met with a chorus of no's. Over our heads and our pleading, my father gave my mother a shrug that he didn't care, wasn't too tired from driving or working or tearing down sheetrock, he would wrestle with us until we collapsed with laughter, the thin walls of our ribs worn through with tickling. On those nights, my mother gave in easily. Standing in the door with a damp dishtowel over her shoulder, she laughed at the four of us lying exhausted on the floor. Be careful, she always said. During the day, we all went to school. Before we stepped out into the rain, my mother handed my brother, father, and me lunch sacks filled with bologna sandwiches and plastic containers of mixed nuts and raisins. I attended Bellevue elementary in a split 3rd/4th 5 another public school with a confusing floor plan and pockets of evergreens dotting the playground. I could not tell you where I ate lunch, or with whom, what the hallways looked like, or the name of any student in my class. Because we lived so close, I walked. A relief because it meant I didn't have to take a bus filled with kids who saved seats and got off at the same stops on Fridays because they were spending the night together. While I don't remember my teacher's name-a striking omission as I can recall 103 |