I’m afraid I’m running out of memories. But it does seem like every time I remember one, another pops up. Sometimes I think I don’t have them because they’re so part of the fabric of my mind that they don’t register as memories—they’re just Deitch space. But then I realize: No, that’s my father.
My parents had 78s. Did I write this already? The record player was downstairs, by my room, in a den that looked out over the Long Island Sound. The floor was actual slate: grey and uneven, shiny with some kind of floor cleaner. That floor is so part of Deitch space. There was a tiny built-in kitchen in that room, elegant, for parties and grown-up card games. There was a little fridge and a sink and bottles of booze. I remember so fondly bowls and bowls of bridge mix—orbs of chocolate—coming out of that.
Anyway, I remember my mom and dad playing 78s and dancing in that room. Not when people were around: just us. And I remember him holding my hands as I stepped onto his shoes, my tiny feet in socks, and him carefully lifting his feet and starting to dance. Could there be anything better? The sunshine, the slate floor, my parents just having been each others’ arms, dancing and laughing. The feel of my feet on the solid ground of my father’s shoes, my hands firmly in his.