Bonham’s Got Nothing on Zia
As the temperature drops and bare feet yield to socks or even warmer, I go on alert. A constant vigil, ears ever perked for that spine tingling, gut wrenching sound. It rarely comes, thank God. But when it does, as it did last night, it is unmistakable. It resonated throughout the halls and into the kitchen where I stood washing up from the evenings dinner.
John Henry Bonham scarcely had as much rhythm.
Zia took a spill coming down the steps, not more than four–five tops–from the syncopated sounds she made as she bounced downward. I caught her near the bottom and was happy to note that most of her tumble had been on hers. I looked down at her warmly covered feet and asked her as calmly as possible to please remember to take those things off when she’s going up and down the stairs. Just so such a thing doesn’t happen.
She looked up at me and through her tears and muffled cries, trying to be brave she said…..
“I guess that’s why they call them slippers.”
