it was dark.
i had just escorted the last of twenty guests safely on their way.
no injuries on the ice rink usually called the driveway.
my son waited for me at the steps as i ascended the treacherous stretch one last time.
that is when i became airborne, feet flying out before me, becoming parallel to the ground, getting a sweet yard of air.
before i could say "holy sh@%!", i landed on my butt like a hippo in a christmas sweater—limbs all akimbo flailing about wildly.
and the only thing that mattered, the only thing, was standing up as quickly as humanly possible.
maybe my son didn't see it.
that's when he yelled, dad! you all right!
i allowed the delusional thought that possibly he had only heard the fall, and did not witness it through the thick, gray darkness.
i rolled over quickly, scampering and slipping to my knees, racing to become upright once again.
i yelled back, i'm fine! no problem!
then i heard it!
clear as the glassy ice below my feet!
what i feared!
his belly laugh!
he saw me!
he confided in me later that is was quite graceful as falls go, almost ballerina like.
but he also told me it was funnier than hell.
then i thought, ya know for all your cheap accolades, it was hell—for a split second anyway—and "funnier" was not a word that immediately came to mind.