A Memory

I am hiding under the dining room table, the only child in the room. The adults sitting around the table are celebrating Uncle Irving's birthday. I smell the smoke from his cigar. The muffled sounds of forks hitting the plates are mingled with the hum of conversation and bursts of occasional laughter. I feel safe in the cool darkness, safe from my grandfather's attention. Looking around, I see my father's feet, my mother's strappy sandals. Uncle Irving's hand comes under the table. He is holding the bubblegum cigar from his birthday cake. He holds it waiting, waiting for me to take it from him.