Moments of Perihelion
Reflections of a childhood lost in space
I sit on my bed, kicking my feet a foot above the floor. My wet braids on my shoulders dampen my favorite pajamas (the ones with the ruffles). My father flips the switch. With the shades drawn tight and the lights off, my room is dark and large, a cave I am unused to. I can’t stop the nervous giggle I’m slowly learning other people don’t have.
My mom turns on the flashlight, its cocoon surrounding the three of us, pushing back the darkness. Dad holds up the red bounce ball he brought in from outside, an interloper indoors we normally keep from intruding.
He spins it round until the x he drew is centered in the flashlight’s beam. “This is us,” he says, as he slowly turns the ball in his hands, until the x is on the other side, in the dark. “When it’s night, our house is far from the sun, the flashlight.” He goes on awhile, moving the ball around the flashlight in my mom’s hand, throwing out big words I love so much, tilting the earth so the x is further from the sun, no matter which side is in “daylight.” I kick my feet.
I feel his breath on my face, my mother’s breathing loud on my other side, kneeling in the dark of my room. I have never had their attention like this. I can’t remember ever being alone in a room with them. I am listening for the sound of my…
