A body in motion stays in motion. The recital. You came late and had to stand at the back of the gymnasium of your daughter’s school. You missed her solo; you missed how she leaped and twirled with the other girls, arms perfect, bodies encased in pink leotards, and those oh-so-lovely faces enhaloed in tight hair buns that gleamed under hot stage lights.
A body in motion stays in motion. The ice cream parlor. You flittered from table to table, bought extra cones and cups, and cajoled the server for more sprinkles, whipped cream, and cups of ice water. All the girls’ parents and siblings looked at you with smiles and appreciation for ensuring everyone had everything they needed.
A body in motion stays in motion. The car. You went fast, like you always did, windows open, music blaring Big Band tunes that you loved since your irony fueled college days of being a hipster doofus.
A body in motion stays in motion. Home. As soon as you dropped your keys into that hand-turned pottery bowl your best friend picked up from a co-op in Taos, you got lost in your phone, migrated to your laptop, and finally to the monstrous television that streamed and streamed entertainment of all and any sort you could want any day anytime.
A body in motion stays in motion. Home. When I came downstairs from bath time and stories and a glass of warm milk, you were standing in the hall holding your keys in your hand, turning the fob around and around, looking down at your feet. I need to go out for a bit, meet John; you know he’s going through a rough time, yeah sure, but he’s my best friend. Okay, so I need to be there for him, it won’t be long, and I’ll get some milk for the morning noticed we were out.
A body in motion stays in motion. Home. You walk out and shut the door behind you. The sound of the closing door. Sharp. Abrupt. It rattles the empty pottery bowl, sending it spiraling on its lipped bottom edge faster and faster and faster until it lands down hard and stops.