Moments That Matter

I sat in the maroon recliner and twirled rocks over gin in a frosty, streakless glass. The large TV above the fireplace played satellite music: Soft pop and classic R&B. Hannah changed it to Gospel when her spirit urged her to pray for Sadie, our daughter.

The sun sank below the horizon, and thick shadows chased soft rays. Lacy flakes danced from heaven, bumping into each other on their way to earth, plopping on rooftops, cars, sidewalks, lawns, and fences.

I changed the redemption back to pop. Hannah sat curled on the leather couch across the living room. She bit her fingernails and smoked a white stick that simmered between her thin fingers. She knocked the ash into a glass ashtray.

I read a Playboy magazine tucked behind a newspaper and glanced at Hannah. I lifted my hand and pointed a black device at the TV. I pressed a button, and the volume softened. “Would you relax?” I said.

“Easy for you to say,” Hannah said.
“Sadie is seventeen, dear.”
“Anything interesting in the paper?” Hannah said, giving me a caught-in-the-act glance.
“Same as always.” I shrugged.
Dim headlights brightened as a car approached.
“Oh, shoot!” Hannah waved her hand as though the smoke would scatter with the ashes.
“What?” I said.
“They’re here,” she said. “That’s what.”
“Would you relax?” I said.
Hannah moved through the living room,
spraying air freshener.
I coughed. “Enough, dear.”
“It’s our house,” I said. “Who cares if you smoke.”
Hannah brought her fingers to her head and kept them there while she talked. “Right. I’m not my mother.” Hannah looked at me. “Please tell me I’m nothing like my mother.”
“Where is this coming from?” I set the magazine on the end table and stood to approach her. Something lit a fire in me, and her eyes danced like flames on the tip of a pin. I hugged her, and she pressed her lips to mine. “I love you, Hannah.”
“I was embarrassed when you first met my parents.”
I kissed her cheek. “Mom smoked and Dad read a newspaper when we met.”
I drew my glance to hers. “Oh my gosh,” I said. “We’re just like our parents.”
“I’d say cooler, right?” Hannah said. “I think we’re cooler than our parents.”
“I always thought so.”
“Mom, Dad, what’s going on?” Sadie said. “I think you’re the coolest parents a kid could have.”
Hannah shed joyous tears. “Mean it?”
“Mean it.” Sadie kissed Hannah’s cheek.
I wrapped my arms around them.
“Okay,” Sadie said. “Enough mushy stuff.”
“Is your boyfriend here?” I said, craning my neck around her.
“Dad, Mom, this is Nathan.” Sadie motioned us in his introduction.
“Please,” Hannah said, gesturing to the couch. “Have a seat.”
“I think we all need to sit down,” Sadie said.
The ceiling fan chopped through shadows, casting shadows on the framed family pictures on the maroon walls.
“That picture, Dad.” Sadie twisted to point.
“Yeah?”
“Mom,” Sadie said.
“Yeah?”
“What do you see?”
“That was you as…” My eyes froze.
“A baby?” Hannah narrowed one eye and scratched her head. “A baby!” Hannah’s eyes bulged.
“A baby,” Sadie said.
“We’ll make it work,” I said, not wanting to say it.
“Yes, dear,” Hannah said. “We’ll make it work.”