Eyes big and uncertain, you finger the receiver of Congressman Greg Walden's front-desk phone. At the moment, the lobby is free of camera-toting protesters, the voicemail doesn't spout off a single tinfoil-hat conspiracy theory, and the congressman himself isn't combing through a thousand-page pork-barrel-choked bill. Not a bad first week back at work. Your mom says, "Share," and then, "Thank you," gently prying the receiver from your grip. She places you on the floor in the middle of a C-shaped Boppy pillow, leaving you as a smiling peninsula amidst a surrounding, lime-green cushion. You appear relieved to be off the phone.
Later that evening, lying diaper-less on the Table of Awareness, you squeal loud enough to startle yourself and your mom who's in the next room. Your dad, sitting within arm's reach on a hardwood, hourglass stool to your right, assesses the situation, finds conditions operating within acceptable parameters, then returns to his F. Scott Fitzgerald. Your attention is, once again, transfixed on your Wee Gallery mobile spinning slowly from the air conditioning, and your dad continues reading aloud the meteoric rise and fall of a man known to his father as Jimmy Gatz.
Next door, the Dodge Neon turns off its radio-blaring trunk speakers even before sundown, and your dad swallows NyQuil from the bottle. His tongue feels thin from the salt and vinegar chips, your mom scoops chocolate peanut butter ice cream from a rectangular container, and you sleep another full night's sleep.
