“…so when you cry, the tears just get pushed around.”
“We were a mess…”
“…that’s probably why our lunch was comped.”
With Mom and me on either side of him at the table, Dad’s head swerved left, right, and back again. His wife and his daughter, talking about the lunch weeks earlier, at the same restaurant table, when they reluctantly considered the possibility of the future without him.
“But you’re here with us now.”
“We’re so happy.”
During our exchange, I watched hints of emotion flicker across Dad’s face. He seemed to enjoy being the center of our small family’s attention. But maybe I saw a trace of guilt too. Maybe. For making us worry? I don’t know.
Dramas? Yes, please. But musicals, I generally think of as trite, long and just generally not for me. I hate how the seats in Broadway theaters (most of them old) are cramped, and lines for the one ladies’ room in the place will be mind bogglingly long at intermission.
Oh, and Broadway is an expensive experience.
But I really want to see Book of Mormon. Like the rest of the world. Tickets are tough to come by, but I’m working the angles.
One issue? My mom is my best angle. She wants to see the show too, she says, even though I’m pretty much positive she won’t like it. Mom is a Republican who goes to church, after all. I’m not sure I can go to see Book of Mormon without her.