Today’s assignment is to write description of my family, using their ages for word counts.
On watching my wife at work: She glides across the canvas of her kitchen, coarse raw ingredients mixing melding baking under her keen artistic gaze, the tools of her craft (pans, racks, turntables, spatulas, knives, scrappers, brushes) weilded like a sculptor, producing art made not of marble stone, but rather of marble cake.
For my son at college: Um, instead of mailing you a case of Mountain Dew, how ’bouts you go buy your own pop?
For my son at home: Fear of growing up will keep you young, if channeled — or age you prematurely, if not.
On seeing my brother confined to a wheelchair: We’ve both heard them — the whispers that your years of long-distance running (you didn’t like to run marathons, they were too short) was more than your body could bear, caused your condition, ruined your life; but we both know that running actually saved your life.
On leaving my broken van in my sister’s driveway: Yes it’s off to the side, and so long as it’s gone before snow descends it isn’t in your way, but driving past that carbuncle of useless metal must be annoying — I never expected to be so in your debt, but I’m relieved that the feeling is not so overwhelming.