“You weren’t even a twinkle in your father’s eye.”
“What?” They were constantly saying things that were completely insane. I knew “twinkle.” I could pound out “Twinkle Little Star” on the little xylophone they’d gotten me for Christmas, you know, 8 or 10 notes, all different colors. At night, the stars twinkled. What did that have to do with me or my dad or the times before the world began on January 7, 1952?
“That’s right, honey. Not even a glimmer.”