深夜拖鞋聲

Deep night.  The house is quiet like a long abandoned European cathedral.  The only sounds in the house comes from the snoring crickets, an occasional passing car, the billowing of the fridge and the announcement of the seconds hand continuously the teasing the tortoise in the minute and hour hands. In the midst of this symphony of silence comes the rhythmic disruption of skidding and dragging.  The amplitude is constant.  The period of sound is consistent. The echo is familiar.  That sound... is the sound of my slippers ice-skating on the dust-camouflaged hardwood floor.

Once upon a time, not so long ago, I didn't wear slippers.  It was confining. It caused my feet to sweat. I already wore shoes all day... now that I'm liberated, I'm re-incarcerating my fleet of wonders again? I stop... I think... I remember... Mom and Dad always wore slippers.  They too were composers in their own rights and I was always the audience in the first row of the orchestra, studying, counting, analyzing.

Mom's steps were fluttered, scrambling, up-beat.  There's no time to stop.  From the moment she woke up, she was pin-balling left and right to get the house ready, so she can leave before every one else leaves to catch the 30-Stockton.  From the moment she gets home, she's dodging all obstacles to serve up 1-2 plates of dinner, just so she can distract the two spoiled monstrosities, so she can catch the next falling building, save the next cat on the tree, rescue the next damsal in distress. Like a mother duck whose body is as steady as a ballerina, her legs are desperately fighting and flaunting to bring calm to the chaos her two boys continue to reek.

Dad had long strides.  Slow. Calculated.  He already walked all day as a waiter... carrying loads of dishes and plates of hot steamy food.  He walked down the Chinatown hills, only to walk back up that night. He carried not just the weight of his structure, but the weight of his family on his shoulders.  Dad... was tired.  Now, he only needed to get from point A to point B.  Why rush?

The next morning... I get up, strap on the fuzzy Uggs and start sache-ing to the living room.  Before I even get into the kitchen...

"早晨爸B!"
"你點知係我㗎？"
"我聽得出係你."