Half-Moon Eyes

My father dangled from the building, three stories up. I watched him with my tiny body wedged between the bucket seats of our station wagon. No rope. No harness. Just his lean frame stretching between the sky and casing as he tugged at a stained-glass window. Half-moon shaped. Rippling with colour and texture. He turned it on an angle and coaxed it inside; extracted before the demolition.

I trembled, more out of awe than fear. He could do anything. One more remained, the Art Deco pair a stunning sight, their flowing lines and glittering shapes like the costumes of aerialists with jeweled tiaras. He teetered but suppressed his frustration for my benefit. I mimicked his forceful yank as he separated the second one from the doomed site. Flung myself onto the pavement, arms outstretched, when he wobbled.

He righted himself, hollering his rebuke, neither one of us on solid ground. I dove into the rear footwell, jumping when he popped the hatch. With a light touch, he placed the windows on top of one another, wedging a blanket in between as he strapped them into place. All things precious locked down. He lit a joint behind the wheel, rolling the glass down just a slit. His buckle hung at his shoulder. Mine did too.

“I think we deserve an ice cream,” he said.

“We do?” 

Lightheaded and numb, I could barely taste it. The sloppy scoop dripped down my cheeks onto my t-shirt, its sugary-sweet trail like the sinuous curves of our hidden treasure. He stared at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes were red. Fingers yellow. Veins blue. 

“Don’t make a mess in my car.”

“Yes, sir.”

I ducked down and imagined a carnival erupting from the glazed surfaces, the wonders beneath the Big Top blazing to life in my inner world. Lifted the weave an inch. Enchanted.

“Hands off.”

“Yes, sir.” 

That, I understood. His daring rescue? A mystery. 

He’d never so much as glanced at my grandmother’s watercolours, hanging throughout our home. After work, he’d sit alone in the living room with a drink in his hand, and ignore anything or anyone not involved in the sporting event on the screen. “Don’t bother your father,” was a daily admonition from my mother. Once, she pulled the glass tube from the back. Smashed it on the counter in protest. 

Nothing changed. Nightly, she’d march me over to him at bedtime regardless, so I could kiss him on the cheek. He held his head ramrod straight, every time. Gaze glued. That night, I dreamt of him and I skating on one of those windows, tracing their whimsical lines with our thin blades. He’d cinched my figure skates so tightly that my ankles ached. 

“Stop complaining, or I’ll give you something to complain about.”

“Yes, sir.” 

I shuffled forward in stilted steps, my knees buckling and lungs wheezing as I chased him down. He glided across the glass effortlessly, crossing one foot over the other in great, looping arcs. When our circles intersected, I lunged at him but tripped over the toe pick. He shook his head, then took a long stride in the opposite direction.

“Get up. You need to learn how to fall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Years later, I had a different dream. We were back at the long-gone building. He was hanging off the side once more. I reappeared as a child between the bucket seats, watching the scene as an adult from the backseat. He balanced across the crumbling edifice, manoeuvring the paper-thin glass out of the second window frame. Again, he slipped. My tiny hand hit the handle like before, and the door burst open. I dove forward, arms outstretched in time. . . 

	. . . to save the stained glass, more alive than his half-moon eyes ever were.

	“I guess you need to learn to fall too,” I said, walking off.