Chris

My aunt Karen brought her South African boyfriend home to meet the family for the first time today. He's white, unfortunately. I tried to fall asleep before going over to grandmom's, but it didn't work out very well and mostly rendered me in a state of fuzzy thoughts. This weariness followed me into conversation. I wanted to get away and nap. Grandmom and Aunt Jeanne in the kitchen. "Menfolk" and Aunt Karen in the living room. Jack and Shannon in the freezing basement. Nobody upstairs... I went into the attic, freezing, but curious. From the top stair I could see stacks of books and bags of clothes. Books! Interesting! Well worth the cold. One particularly tattered book was beat up and faded. It was a soldier's handbook. The front sticker still had my Uncle Chris' name and code number on it. Echo #215. I hesitantly picked it up. On the back was poetry. On the inside cover there was poetry. War is not the place for a poet, and his words make that clear. It makes me sad.

:]

He likes me back and we phrase things so peculiarly and it makes me so stupidly happy I forget to say something with ridiculous phrasing.

I feel silly and I like it.