After the fight, my mother sits in her room, staring out the window, wondering where my father has gone, though she already knows he is driving along thin mountain roads, as he often does when he is upset. She wonders why he always says he might leave, because it upsets her so, even though she knows he doesn’t mean it. When he returns, she won’t look at him standing there in his best blue shirt, his hands clutching a record he bought on his way home. Only when he plays it does she turn to him, surprised to hear the song they heard so many years ago, their bodies close in a dark gymnasium. And seeing him there, seated on the sofa, a man lost with words, she simply tilts her head and waits for him to take her hand and lead her to the dining-room floor, where they dance a slow, sorrowful box step, even though the song is fast and their hearts are still broken.