Thursday, December 16, 2010
Chicken soup. Bread and grapes. Janie lugs the silver stock pot from fridge to table, places the settings, flops a bag of rolls next to the pot.
I scoop a tornado of papers from desk to trash. "Momma," Jane calls, "come have dinner." We eat. We smear the rolls with butter, dunk 'em deep in the soup. Crumbs fall to the floor.
Later, I splay the night with temper.
Craig raises his eyebrows. I frown, hands on my hips.
And Jack. Jack tootles down the dining room bench in black rain boots. "Daddy," he chimes, "you're the king of this castle," he hops one foot to the other, flaps his arms for balance. His boots clap loud against the hardwood when he jumps down.
His words wash up around my ankles like ocean surf. The king of this castle. For a moment the world pauses. King of the castle. How do you treat the king of the castle? Every one waits for their cue.