Lying in bed, red-wine boozy head sunken in plush pillows. Looking at the digital clock and wondering where my parents are. No ticking second hand to keep rhythm with my thoughts.
Leaving the dance floor at the bequest of my swollen feet; four hours of wedding reception dancing still flushing out the system. I think about my father's strong, gentle hands at the small of my equally small mother's back. Two people, one set of parents. Young couples melt into each other's private parts...eager to penetrate new flesh, swell around them. They are old and find each other with ease. Shadows brushing up against each other on wet streets.
In that small part of my mother's back my father remembers brownies left outside his dorm room door, babies pushed out of intimate places, and tickets to Peter, Paul, and Mary...standing outside the alley, smoking cigarettes behind the venue. He is young with her and has no image of that older man, lost to himself in the mirror of a quick shave this morning.
I hear their soft footsteps outside our room and wonder if they are aware of the curfew that has been broken. Should I pretend to sleep? Will they remember that their eldest sleeps less than a foot from their bed, one day ago in diapers between them? I am thirty-two and feel thirteen. What were they thinking making me worry?
My father enters first and sinks down on the bed. He looks at me in the dark and asks, "Did I tell you what movie we're watching next in our Netflix queue?" My mother tucks me in tighter and mumbles, "...so little". I listen to the faucet running, brushes brushing. Soft light from under the bathroom door.
My father rises, kisses me on the cheek, turns and kneels next to his bed. Head bowed; his final daily dance. (The humble act of thanksgiving and blessing and fatigue.) My body stills and finds comfort in the memory of prayer...and love.
