As a family, we generally eschewed the drone of the television, and instead listened to some of my father’s jazz or classical LPs. Dad chose a Stan Getz album. Mom’s preference ran toward older pop favorites; The Mammas and The Pappas, Doris Day, Dean Martin. Off to the side, my few rock albums filled the rack.
Everett, after dropping a few names like Coltrane and Gillespie, again doffed one loafer, tucked one leg under his other knee, and settled further back on the couch near me.
It took some reserve not to simply lay my head in his lap, I was that happy. My parents might have been initially miffed, surprised or even put off, more by any open display of affection than by it being between two boys, one of them their son. Learning by Everett’s example, I realized that perhaps joy contained might have more longevity.
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