my babysitter of ten years once mistook mold in her vanilla custard yogurt as cute little candies. she taught me how to chuck a frisbee, how to pirouette underneath the spinning disc and catch it on the top of my index finger, how to snap the wrist. and she cultivated my interest in farce rock, viz., the barenaked ladies (one week, if I had a million dollars, etc.)
she asked my brother and me to roll the white runway down the aisle of st. peter's church during her wedding. when the material snagged on my side of the pew. she smiled. later, at the reception, she danced with my brother; they performed their choreographed steps to van morrison's brown eyed girl. the origin of these moves can be traced back to my family room, the summer, the stereo. she had brown eyes.
I danced like an epileptic on fire.
her husband, john, built their house by hand. before it was livable, they squatted in the shed in her mother's backyard. the two are in the midst of raising three daughters. she said, watching a weather person reporting in a hurricane always makes me laugh.
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