Mother's Day.
We gathered as a family, not in an overcrowded mess, at my mother's place, near the beach, the adults hungover, some sporting fresh scrapes and bruises, the children as yet untouched by the family terrorist: the biggest, baddest motherfucker of them all: alcohol.
"You want a fucking beer or what?" my mother asked me after I kissed her and handed her some potted flowers and a card that curiously quoted Led Zeppelin in its Mother's Day poem.
After a few we got our lunch. Ham on rye, green salad, potato salad and strawberry cake. It was like a picnic in 1972.
After we ate my two youngest grand nieces, the shy ones who never say shit to me, invited me to play with them on the tire swing I had once played on back in the '60s. I pushed the swing. They swung.
It was better than Christmas, Mother's Day was.
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