I closed my eyes, feeling the burn of tears. “Well,” she admitted with a laugh, “we may have enjoyed a little too much wine that evening.” She paused and sighed. When you guys came home you were laughing so hard you could hardly walk.” “I remember when Dad mooned him at a staff holiday party. Voted against your father’s tenure because they had an argument about whether to include the Norse gods in a freshman mythology seminar.” Do you recall the chronic battles your father fought with Adam Glick, the department head? Awful man. It’s as inescapable as mood swings in a middle school. “So no faculty drama?” I asked, remembering how she and my dad were always raging over some intrigue or another at their university. She talked about her classes and how much of a relief it was to be teaching at a small college. She talked about how she’d made some friends and started a local wine club. “He is, ah, impressive in every way,” I stammered and then changed the subject. I felt myself blushing as my treacherous mind flashed to images a girl didn’t want to deal with when having a conversation with her mother. “He sounds impressive across the board,” she said. I’d already told her a lot but it made her happy to know that I was happy so I told it all to her again. I’ve been told my laugh is the same but I’m not sure if that’s true because no one truly hears the sound of their own laughter. She had the most wonderful laugh it seemed to bubble right out of her throat. “And a welcome interruption it is,” she said, laughing. I was just sitting here reading your favorite book and suddenly I felt like interrupting your work.” She was wide awake, answering on the second ring.
Macon and I would always have to shove them away to find some space for our cereal bowls. When I think of him I think of newspapers ransacked piles of current events covering the length of the farm-style kitchen table. He had eight different newspapers delivered every day and he read them all. My father was often in bed before ten and always awake before five. However, by some quirk of the universe she’d married the king of the morning.
She’d prod me back to bed without scolding and then return to her work, sometimes not seeking out her bed until the first wisps of dawn. as a child in search of a bathroom or a glass of water I would always find her seated at her mahogany office desk with a mug of coffee and a stack of thesis projects.
Whenever I stumbled out of bed at two a.m.
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