You must imagine my mom, standing in the glare of the bowling alley’s lights, her slight shoulders sagging under the weight of a ball she’s not quite happy with, her pants not quite reaching the top of her Christmas socks. She shuffles to the dotted line, looks back, and grins like she’s about to do something entirely foolish.
And then she lifts the ball in front of her, takes three surprisingly graceful steps towards the line and then she brings her arm back, a pause, it comes forward and then the ball rolls off her fingers, down the lane, and right into the pins. Over and over again.
What the fuck?
When did my mom learn to bowl? How come she’s never come bowling with us before? When, we ask her, was the last time she’s even been bowling?
"Oh, I went with my dad."
Her dad’s been dead decades.
My mom hits spare after spare after spare and, after each one, she bends her arms at the elbows, grins, and shakes her butt, much to my dad’s chagrin and the Butcher’s and my delight.
Interesting our parents were actually people once.