“Calvin! It’s happening. I think it’s happening!” The plate slips from his fingers and drops to the oak floor. It shatters. Shards slide across the kitchen, under the table, under the refrigerator. He ignores them and crunches right over the pieces in his LL Bean moccasins, straight to my mother. She’s standing in front of the television, her knitting needles in one hand, half-finished orange sock in the other.
