Something simple something everything
She had a nightmare, she says, of me laughing. And she laughs at her slyness, at her teasing, 10-years-old and wearing Easter’s bow. He laughs too hard at a throw away-line of mine until his wife comes in with a two syllable han-ha laugh and the kids want to hear again the impersonation of Joseph in jail doing his late night call-in dream-interpretation radio show.
Her hand’s on my shoulder as she says something simple something everything as if there’d never been anything to forget.
Good-bye Daniel, they say, as if afraid I’d get away before they got it in, before they got in to me. Thank you, she says, as I stand on the stairs and wonder what, ever, they could owe me and wondering when between the un-slept days of giving offense, of growling and snarling through, of being fought and hated and despised then, and now, when how I became likable.
So I smile in the sweetness of my silence, still within the raining of their cacophony. Thank you, I say.