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Show I need to have my mother tickling my face and cannot, it seems, ask the question of where she was when he yelled. Because what if she was right there beside him, what if she reassured him when he was remorseful or stayed with him because she thought the way he acted was okay? What if in those moments my mother abandoned me as well. And I was utterly alone. We are gathered around the wicker table in the basement of the house; the fire has gone out leaving cold ash and embers that barely flicker. Scott and I play Pitch with my parents, while Bryan maneuvers his Tonka trucks around the family room floor. My father once again explains the rules to the game he has grown up playing, the one that he and his father and brothers and sisters-in-law will play into the early morning while drinking cup after cup of black coffee in the moss-colored mugs my grandma favors. For someone whose knowledge of card games only extends to Hearts and Solitaire, Pitch presents many challenges-pointers versus takers, calling trump, keeping the deuce, bidding your hand, counting cards. I have trouble following and my father grows more and more impatient with each hand. Concentrate, concentrate, he says, count the trump. How many are there again, I ask, how do I know? So many hands have already been played, trump uncounted, takers, points, a partner who counts on you to play your hand. Thirteen. It's simple. Just count. He is my partner. It's hard. Think it through. Think it through. Stop putting up mental blocks. |