Stigmata: Not Just For Breakfast Anymore

*** continued from previous post ***

I silently begged Leeza not to leave us. I felt our tenuous hold on civility could cross over to unpleasantness at any moment. Much like every family reunion we've ever attended. Except for that one in the park where your Uncle Jahn baked all those plates of brownies and we spent the day laughing and laughing and laughing and then 27 of us hid under the picnic table for an hour because we thought the people at the next shelter were FBI agents.

That reminds me, I need to write Uncle Jahn and get that brownie recipe.

Luckily, the oatmeal was so indescribably delicious that no one spoke for quite some time. I know! Oatmeal! Come to think, it might have used some of the same ingredients as the brownies. The fruit was ripe and firm and . . . umm . . . sweet. What else can you say about fruit?

With food in our stomachs the mood around the table lightened a bit. The family began to talk quietly amongst themselves, and your mom and I held hands under the table offering each other support. True, your mom held a little too tightly, and I had to pry her fingernails from the palm of my hand with a spoon, but it really wasn't so bad. Hardly any blood at all. If anyone were to notice my wounds I would swoon in a religious fervor claiming stigmata.

As we finished the last bites of our cereal, Donny came bounding out of the kitchen and made a beeline for our table. "Boy, I gotta tell ya, that is some bike you got there."


*** the journey continues ***