I walk into the living room, where my mother noisily flips through a magazine; tears cling to her long, dark eyelashes.
Fearful, I sit on the ottoman and take her hand in mine.
She signs, puts the magazine down, smiles in a tired, almost wicked sorta way.
“Do me a favor?”
And I wander into dad’s den with a fistful of chocolate-chip cookies, even though the door is closed. There’s a strong smell of candle wax, incense.
My dad sits cross-legged, the lotus position, wearing what looks like a big diaper, only the rough cloth is the color of orange sherbet. He’s chanting in this low tone.
When I notice that he’s floating a good eight inches off the polished oak floor.
I quietly walk forward, saddle up next to him.
The tranquility broken, dad falls to the floor in a loud thump. Because his legs are crossed, he loses balance and his head makes contact with the floor with a sickly slap.
Wincing, he looks at me through tears that now coat his eyelashes. He rights himself back into the lotus position, adjusts the orange diaper at the waist.
“Son, you can go tell your mother for me,” he says, rubbing the bald spot on the back of head with one hand, and plucks a cookie from my mitt with the other, “that the Methodists and their ilk can no longer contain my chakra.”
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