The Wind

That was me, dancing on a moonbeam in the dark, after the street lights had gone on. My mamma kept calling and calling from the house but my daddy came outside, and danced on a moonbeam, too. We were together like that, in ways she couldn't be. How lonely she must have been, how angry she looked to us, hollering from behind the screen, "Daniel, bring that kid in the house!" Then my daddy tired of trying to persuade her to join us outside, swept me up like a feather on the wind for a moment, and we were together like feather and wind. That was me, dancing on a moonbeam. I've lost that rhythm, that absolute faith that all things in the imagination are possible. My parents divorced when I was thirteen. My dad died a lonely, broken man. My mother died a bitter, broken woman. I wonder what my father thought he was when I thought he was the wind?