In that special niche between dreams and waking,

my mother tiptoed into my darkened room.

In a hurried whisper, she explained the

need for stealth, her eyes excited and shining.

We needed to be quiet, my little brother was asleep.

I noticed it was almost 11, the latest I’d ever been up.

I made my way uncertainly to the living room, my fingers

twisting the thin fabric of my faded Smurfette nightgown.

My father was at the front door, trading cash for

square cardboard boxes, reeking of pepperoni.

I settled on the tattered sofa, leaned against the

soft orange and yellow afghan.

While my father brought in a thick roll of paper towels

and a blue mixing bowl full of buttery popcorn,

my mother proudly held up a video for me to examine.

This was the newest scary movie, and my first scary movie ever:

Child’s Play.

We all crowded on the couch together,

sharing pizza and shrieks and laughter.

As the movie reached its climax, my father disappeared.

He snuck back in, crouching behind the worn sofa.

When the small screen showed Chucky lunging forward,

my father threw the doll he had taken from my room.

The doll arced up and over the couch, landing

squarely in my mother’s lap!

Her frightened squeals were drowned out

by the gales of laughter from my father and me.

She finally found the laughter contagious

and pelted us with handfuls of popcorn.