Once there were three of us all together in a house. Not in the city, no, in the country with its hills. The house was small, my father’s head scraped against the ceiling while I slithered through his legs. We roughhoused in the little rooms, we made the china closet shake. My mother shut her eyes and yelled at us to stop. But we wouldn’t stop, we were happy banging through the doors and up and down the stairs. The plates and cups rattled. The bird beat its wings against the cage and cheeped. A chair fell. My mother flew out of the kitchen and screamed, “There’s a cake in the oven!” But we would not stop our stamping.

My father blew smoke and roared while I rode his back like a train around the room. She laughed then. She laughed and took off her floury apron and let the cake fall, the plate break. We couldn’t sit still, ever, any of us. I close my eyes now and see them dance, see me turning on my toes to make the room spin, to make the light fly round the wall. Oh, we were not quiet in that house! The three of us together.

~ Norman Lock, The Long Rowing Unto Morning