My mom arrived on a dark Thursday night vibrating grief. The next night she made chicken soup that my daughter slurped up like a hungry waif out of Dickens. My daughter has been on a hunger strike for the past few months and at the end with her empty bowl and plastic spoon she seemed so completely fed that I suspect it was more than food she got that evening.
10 days later I drove my mom to the airport while listening to the new My Bloody Valentine record that music geeks have been waiting for nearly 22 years to see light of day. They sounded just like they did when I was 21 and the car was awash in a womb of distortion and sound.
It was Super Bowl Sunday and my wife taught my son how to stand on his head with no help.