“Ice, Ice, Baby (a Slacker’s Guide, Holidays)”

“Unc over there drunk as hell. You better get him,” mama wasn’t playing games today. She pointed at Uncle Ernest — my uncle — my mama’s brother; beckoning him to gather their brother, who we just called Unc. One of five boys, the only survivor; then, over a decade and a half later came along my mama and her brother — twins — and, as always, unexpectedly — as grand-mama would always roll her eyes and kiss her teeth at that; “raw-doggin’ may clear your belly, boy, but it’ll stick to her ribs;” as she sat in her rocking chair next to the fireplace; an area rug underneath to hold her TV table; made popular in the 50's or whenever they bought their first television; smoking cigarettes and drinking scotch.

Unc drunk. Grand-mama laughing, halfway drunk. Grandad didn’t drink, but would eat and snack all day; was in his captain’s chair, glasses on his nose, newspaper on his chest. A little sleep apnea never made for a silent alarm, in case you ever forgot or wondered if he was still ear-hustling, as my mama called it.

Holidays used to mean something. I’m no curmudgeon. I smile for my mother because she would have given me that sad look. If she needed me to come through bad enough when nobody else would tell her yes, for her own good, she knew her son would; just to see her smile and enjoy life. It’s a short thing, ya know?