Confession

Five headstrong brothers are in the family room having a say, sitting on bamboo furniture with tropical upholstery that came with the house. They use their hands when they talk over each other. I’m underneath the orange tablecloth with the gold fringe playing with dolls. Joe always asks who I’m talking to. On Friday night this will be the Bridge table. Mom and Dad will put bowls of soft pink mints on its white Formica corners. Usually when they’re all in here I’m in the front room, out of earshot. When I am alone in the front room I levitate, checking first to make sure no one is looking, which they never are. I bend my legs at the knees and float, daring them to catch me. I wake up sometimes in the middle of the night and go downstairs, through the kitchen and out the side door to the backyard. I step up on the picnic table and lift off, flying over rooftops into the blue night, dotted with stars and street lights.