| Subject: Not Remembering the Memory |
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paris
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Date Posted: 09:39:25 02/08/01 Thu
Author Host/IP: NoHost/165.29.41.2
NOT REMEMBERING THE MEMORY
BY: STEVEN HARVEY
I DON’T REMEMBER THE date—don’t ask me, I don’t remember the details—don’t ask me. What I do remember is this:
It was a hot-ish night. (That’s about the only detail I do recall) and my sister Tiffany, my best bud Kevin, and I were all in the bedroom—my mother’s—and Kevin was on the bed, hiking boots on, standing at his 6’2” height, hair spiked to the ceiling, hopping as high as you please. We were singing Elton John’s “The One” to the top of our lungs while our parents held dearly to the china and other breakables as our voices thundered. Kevin—as I have said was on the bed—with a pillow atop his head. He was hopping up and down, singing with us and the light fixture shattered. Suddenly. Like someone had shot it from the window. My sister, Tiffany, was sitting on the foot of the bed, right under the fixture; I was on my feet, standing about twelve feet in front of her. Glass showered down over her head and upper body. Everything was silent…right before the storm.
“Oh,” Tiffany mewed.
“Who-o-a,” I said in a baritone.
“Oh,” she mewed again.
“Who-o-o-a,” I muttered again, though the word was longer.
We continued with the oh’s and whoa’s for the better part of a minute, when suddenly sprang into action as though by an invisible force: Kevin dropped to his keister, said, “Oh, Tiffany, are you alright? I didn’t mean to do it!” And looked at me as though I were a coconspirator. He grinned, as though to say to me in a Wayne and Garth type of way, “Holy moly man! Radical! Did you see that? You da man!” “No, you da man!” “Huh-uh, you da man!”
A thread of blood trickled down Sissy’s (that’s my nickname for her) forehead and a nice deep gash on her left elbow proved more important. (We found out at the hospital that the cut on her scalp was merely a little nick.)
Hospital?!
Oh, yeah
I ran to the bedroom door, swung it open. “Mama!” I bellowed
“What?” she bellowed back.
“Tiff’s hurt!”
Her voice was lower, talking to Sharon, Kevin’s mom. “Oh, my Lord, Sharon…”
Needless to say that when she got back from the hospital she was sporting 23 stitches and a new Christmas time teddy bear.
“Are you better, sissy?” I asked, trying desperately to hold back a snicker.
She knitted her eyebrows in a ferocious frown.
“You better not do that, love, you’ll face’ll freeze that way.” Don’t laugh, I told myself. She’ll kill ya!
The frown deepened.
“No,” was her only answer.
“Oh,” was mine, while desperately holding that snicker.
I sighed, got up, walked past her, into the hall. I stopped if she maybe wanted to tell me.
“It’s a cut above the rest,” she said.
“Ha-ha!” I noticed the murderous glare and quickly straightened my face. “What is?” I wailed, the laugh lodged in my throat.
“My cut, stupid.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve never had a cut this high up before. It’s a cut above the rest.”
A pained expression on my face (holding a laugh in can be hard work) I walked around the corner, finally letting the pressure go with a nice wicked laugh of glee.
A tennis shoe thumped me in the back of the head.
Sissy threw it.
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