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Learning to Fall: tabled.
"N.B." Momma poked me a little, just above the belly button.
I opened my eyes and she was standin' over me, so was Dad, and the two of them were smilin', actually smilin' with teeth out and everything. That's the way it was with them when they took into each other: the next day was all happy/smiley.
"Whaaaat?" I rolled over into my pillow. Morning's weren't ever my best time.
"We've got a surprise for you, boy." When Dad called me boy, something big was up. Always.
I pulled on my shirt, hitching my breath twice as the scar stretched a little; pricking little needles shot across my nipples down to my belly. On the way to the door, trying to tie my shoes and walk at the same time--one big step, kneel down on one knee, tie a shoe, another big step, tie the other one--i fell over sideways onto a pile of dirty clothes, laughing at how quickly I went from sleep to falling down. Always.
In the kitchen, on the table was a big box, a bouncing box. In the box, a dog.
"Penguin!" I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him out of the box, against me, unmindful of the hot pressure against my chest. He was all black with a white chest, a mutt, like Tribble, only smaller.
"Penguin," Momma and Dad both laughed his name at the same time. I picked him up and he peed on Dad's leg.
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