Some of you will remember my daughter Quetzal, how I once wrote often of her and me and us and our father/daughter times together. That was then. This is now. Quetzal is 13, taller than you would think, and bursting with a primal life-force. That and sleepovers. Which is to say we do sleepovers at our house in a big way. Six/eight girls at a time in the loft overnight and bellied up to the table in the morning. With me doing breakfast (my wife sleeping). I set the table w/ cloth napkins and silverware and serve up eggs and ham and toast and OJ and home fries and fruit. Got tunes going to my liking. The second a girl finishes her plate, I pull it, wash it, dry it. Put it on the shelf. Done.
He was once a waiter, they whisper. If they only knew…
There’s a sleepover happening in our home right now, this very second!
6 girls. They’re outside just now wading in the creek. It’s 43 degrees. One girl is wearing my new boots, they’re all screaming, and another girl has another girl by the leg. Our poor, one-legged duck is stumbling in flight away as best she can.
That one-legged duck lays an egg every morning.
I’ll be driving all six girls to the school dance tonight at 7 sharp. And fetching them home at 9 sharp.
I asked Quetzal once if anyone danced. No, she said. They just play music. Who plays the music, I asked. The 8th grade boys, she said.
Once when I picked Quetzal up at 9, the boys were playing Zeppelin. Do you like Zeppelin, I asked. Not really, she said.
Of course the girls talk into the night and whisper and sometime wrestle. That always surprises me. But it’s always just a second or so.
My wife and I sleep on sleepover nights at the opposite side of the house. We keep Bach on low and all’s good. Can’t hear them.