Picnic
My aunts and uncles and cousins by the dozens are at the Labor Day picnic. I wasn’t going to come, Vermont’s too far now that I live in Seattle. And two tickets were too pricey. But this might be Dad’s last year. And there’s no better time to introduce Trisha, my new spouse, twenty years my junior. Okay, more like twenty-five.
Everyone was so fucking polite, happy to see me. I’m reduced to Ricky, not Richard. Aunt Flo gained fifty more pounds. Uncle Dirk’s skin was blue from his pace-maker. We were all hanging in the backyard tent which makes the 100 degree heat feel like 150. I had to pee so I headed inside the house. On the back porch, I heard Mom blabbing with Aunt Jo in the kitchen so I paused.
“She seems awfully nice,” Mom said. “Trisha.”
“My gawd, Deanna,” Aunt Jo replied, “He could be her father.”
I didn’t know whether to interrupt them, or head back outdoors and pee on Aunt Jo’s prize-winning rose bushes.
