The Christmas I was seven my father left--for good this time--
while my mother and I saw Tom Jones at the Sheraton.  We had
third row seats, and now in memory, the singer looks the same as
when I see him on TV.  His zodiac covered shirt opened at the collar
exposed a chest of gold chains as he gyrated his hips and the women
screamed.  Balls of luminescent underwear unfurled through the
interchanging red and blue and white lights.  He danced around the
satin snow drifts at his feet.  My mother looked young in a mini
dress, knee-high boots, her hair slightly teased.  She clapped while I
watched the charms on her bracelet dance.  The ballet slippers were
 for me.  The shamrock for my sister.  The Leaning Tower of Pisa 
represented my father's faulty construction.  Often she talked about
their early years in Germany where they adopted a black cat named
Nikki and my father saw a woman named Astrid on the side.  Tall,
thin, short curly hair, he modeled for fashion magazines.  I kept a
picture of him lying on his stomach on a beach blanket, propped up
by his elbows, his legs crossed behind him, looking angelic as he
listened t a transistor radio.  Over the years I've seen this young
face change, subtly at first, then becoming unrecognizable, until
when I try to imagine his last evening in our house, I see Tom Jones
sitting on the floor in front of our tree.  The strings of flickering
white Christmas lights illuminate him bent to the task of putting
together a bike painted a strange shade of green.