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Show but my mother recovered and grabbed for me, leaving my brother in a pile on the floor holding his heaving sides. I got you! She cried. But then my father sprang from his place behind the table and lunged for the can. When my mother turned to protect the can, he scooped her up in his arms, like she was a toy, and swept her high in the air. Her feet kicked the air, and she yelled out. Morris, she laughed, put me down, put me down. I got you now! The can, the can. And then they were dancing, a waltz or a jitterbug or a lindy without music, some sweeping, twirling, silent dance. Down one side of the family room, toward the sliding doors that ran wet with rain and then up the other. Her feet never touched the ground, and her head fell back against my father's arms, heavy from how quickly they spun. It was this moment, cut from the fabric of the rest of our lives, suspended in time, when the world both fell away and came together. Watching them, I felt warm inside, like I belonged. Me too, me too, I cried, having forgotten the game. My father holding my mother, her laughing as hard as any of us, Scott knocked the can with one good kick into the fireplace where it rang like a bell. That night when I went to bed, I remember lying under the comforter, the soft clink of the dishwasher being emptied coming down the stairs. I looked at the built in drawers and shelves, waiting for the glowing dot to appear, the bright eye of the monster. Instead, the room around me began to slide slowly and gently into the dark. It felt like an embrace. And I drifted, consciously, into sleep, letting the day and my family fade around 108 |
