Jason Helmandollar
The Backward Fall
"Dad?" she says. "I swear, I can't remember the words to my own songs." She is sixty-two and sitting on the edge of the couch, her old acoustic guitar perched on her knee.
Her husband of forty-seven years walks into the living room from the kitchen. "What's that, Mom?" he says. For decades, ever since they had their third child together, he has called her Mom and she has called him Dad.
"I can't remember how the second verse starts."
"Well, what are you singing?"
"You must be ignoring me. I've been trying to sing the same song for the last twenty minutes.