It was late afternoon . . .
The sun – just barely peeking through,
casting a warm glow across the linen dressed table.
Perfectly choreographed fine china.
Candlelight – flickering, flirting;
dancing alongside the portly glasses, adorned in red.
Turkey – carved, and presented, beautifully, on a platter.
Anticipation of a tasty, mouthwatering meal.
And, as they all gathered ‘round, cousin Bob spoke
(a question, in the form of a statement, and very profound):
“DO I HAVE A BUTT CHIN.”
And, so began the dinner table conversation . . .
“HE has a butt chin.”
“SHE has a butt chin.”
“YOU have a butt chin.”
“I DO???”
“What IS a BUTT chin?”
“I DO NOT HAVE A BUTT CHIN!!!”
Suddenly, Grandma Rose,
who is sometimes there (sometimes, not), chimed in:
“With a chin like that, I’ll bet your mom had a hard time
figuring out which end to diaper.”
STUNNED SILENCE.
LAUGHTER.
Then, cousin Bob spoke up, again.
“Who can touch their tongue to the tip of their nose?”
And, the dinner conversation continued . . .
