Sunday, at a certain volume.

On Sundays, after lunch, the record player took over. My father would inspect the needle as though preparing a delicate operation. The rest of us waited for the opening notes.

Nobody in this family could dance particularly well. This did not discourage anyone. The coffee table was moved. The rug became a dance floor.

The sleeve is splitting at the bottom. I hold it carefully, with the record inside, and think about how much a room can contain.