consolation. Her eyes are flashing, betrayed by the daddy person and looking toward the lens for the mommy person’s help. Pete’s lips are pursed in a half smile, frozen in mid-coo. His lashes, in profile, mirror hers. Dumb cow eyes, he used to call his big brown ones, with their impossible lashes.
The third photo is absolute rapture. The realization of her eleven-month-old world spinning, with its methodical ups and downs and Daddy safe next to her, has brought a gleeful, gummy smile to her face. Cheeks wide, eyes shining, and the hint of two bottom front teeth at her gumline about to break through. Pete is absolved, vindicated, rewarded. Grinning point-blank at me as I manage to capture, unknowingly, our little unit’s final experience of jumping into the great unknown together. The photos speak volumes, yet they say nothing. The moment, like the ride, was too short.
A cacophony of bells fractured my reverie. Along with 80 percent of their furniture, my parents happened to have left behind a half dozen of their noisiest antique clocks. Abbey and I no longer noticed them, but to the unsuspecting visitor, midnight arrives in quite a jarring fashion. Adrian marveled, surrounded by grandfather, wall, and mantel clocks with their chime rods and tubes pealing in their splendor. They weren’t quite in synch, so midnight arrived at 11:58 and continued until about 12:03. “Sorry, I should have warned you . . .”
“No, no, they’re brilliant! I hear the Winchester chimes: ‘O Art Divine, exalted blessing! Each celestial charm expressing!’ Makes me feel like a kid again.” He cocked his head. “And there’s the Westminster, and the Whittington chime. It’s like time-traveling back to London and being in two places at once.” I loved the way his smile came so quickly and naturally that it almost surprised even him.
“My dad owned an antique shop,” I explained. “I sort of inherited the house when they moved, along with a lot of the inventory.” While most of the heavy antique furniture was out of both my price range and my scope of style, I still enjoyed the history each piece had. Not only its history from whatever period it happened to have been created in, but also the history it played in my own life. It was somewhat comforting to serve Abbey dinner at the Horner solid quartered oak dining table, round with its full-winged griffin carved base. My family had celebrated countless Thanksgivings at that table; it was where I had wished over numerous birthday cakes, and where Pete and I had first announced our engagement.
“It’s . . .” He scanned the room, stalling for the right words. “Quaint. Homey.” His eyes rested on me, and it seemed like he wanted to add another adjective, but instead fell silent.
I hastily flipped on the attic light at the bottom of the stairs. “Um . . . the spare bedroom is upstairs. You can smoke up there if you want, just make sure you open the window. Towels . . . extra toothbrushes . . . all that stuff is in the linen closet in the bathroom up there.” Liz had recently stayed with us over Easter weekend, so I knew the bedding was freshly laundered and the dust couldn’t have settled too much since. It was no Four Seasons, but it would have to do.
Standing back, I allowed Adrian to proceed up the stairs. He paused three steps up, hand lingering on the railing, and turned. “Thank you. I know this is . . . weird and unexpected. Thanks for being a good sport.” He disappeared up the rest of the stairs.
My nightly bedtime rituals were performed, albeit with slightly racing heart and shaking hands. I tried hard not to be aware of every little creak and moan from the floorboards above me. Brushing my teeth, I reflected on when the last time was that I had been on my own in the house overnight with another adult. Certainly well before Abbey was born. It felt strange yet natural, all at the same time.
Footsteps approached the top of the stairs.
The third photo is absolute rapture. The realization of her eleven-month-old world spinning, with its methodical ups and downs and Daddy safe next to her, has brought a gleeful, gummy smile to her face. Cheeks wide, eyes shining, and the hint of two bottom front teeth at her gumline about to break through. Pete is absolved, vindicated, rewarded. Grinning point-blank at me as I manage to capture, unknowingly, our little unit’s final experience of jumping into the great unknown together. The photos speak volumes, yet they say nothing. The moment, like the ride, was too short.
A cacophony of bells fractured my reverie. Along with 80 percent of their furniture, my parents happened to have left behind a half dozen of their noisiest antique clocks. Abbey and I no longer noticed them, but to the unsuspecting visitor, midnight arrives in quite a jarring fashion. Adrian marveled, surrounded by grandfather, wall, and mantel clocks with their chime rods and tubes pealing in their splendor. They weren’t quite in synch, so midnight arrived at 11:58 and continued until about 12:03. “Sorry, I should have warned you . . .”
“No, no, they’re brilliant! I hear the Winchester chimes: ‘O Art Divine, exalted blessing! Each celestial charm expressing!’ Makes me feel like a kid again.” He cocked his head. “And there’s the Westminster, and the Whittington chime. It’s like time-traveling back to London and being in two places at once.” I loved the way his smile came so quickly and naturally that it almost surprised even him.
“My dad owned an antique shop,” I explained. “I sort of inherited the house when they moved, along with a lot of the inventory.” While most of the heavy antique furniture was out of both my price range and my scope of style, I still enjoyed the history each piece had. Not only its history from whatever period it happened to have been created in, but also the history it played in my own life. It was somewhat comforting to serve Abbey dinner at the Horner solid quartered oak dining table, round with its full-winged griffin carved base. My family had celebrated countless Thanksgivings at that table; it was where I had wished over numerous birthday cakes, and where Pete and I had first announced our engagement.
“It’s . . .” He scanned the room, stalling for the right words. “Quaint. Homey.” His eyes rested on me, and it seemed like he wanted to add another adjective, but instead fell silent.
I hastily flipped on the attic light at the bottom of the stairs. “Um . . . the spare bedroom is upstairs. You can smoke up there if you want, just make sure you open the window. Towels . . . extra toothbrushes . . . all that stuff is in the linen closet in the bathroom up there.” Liz had recently stayed with us over Easter weekend, so I knew the bedding was freshly laundered and the dust couldn’t have settled too much since. It was no Four Seasons, but it would have to do.
Standing back, I allowed Adrian to proceed up the stairs. He paused three steps up, hand lingering on the railing, and turned. “Thank you. I know this is . . . weird and unexpected. Thanks for being a good sport.” He disappeared up the rest of the stairs.
My nightly bedtime rituals were performed, albeit with slightly racing heart and shaking hands. I tried hard not to be aware of every little creak and moan from the floorboards above me. Brushing my teeth, I reflected on when the last time was that I had been on my own in the house overnight with another adult. Certainly well before Abbey was born. It felt strange yet natural, all at the same time.
Footsteps approached the top of the stairs.
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