Uncle Ted's House

I hated going to Uncle Ted's house, he'd sit outside, shine in a jar, talking, talking, talking to his friends. They'd talk so dirty the air would blush, and keep right on into the night, never caring we were there. My mother would nod and roll her eyes as a signal that THOSE were the words I couldn't say. I hated sitting on the broken swing, listening to them repeat themselves for hours, as if the story told THIS time was funny. Aunt Rose would bring us sweet tea, chilled with gigantic ice cubes taking up the whole glass, sweat pouring down the sides and dripping on our shorts. I hated waiting for the family to get done with the gossip, important information my mother would call it, the only information Aunt Rose could ensure would keep her justification to be called the town mouth, know it all. We kids sassed at her title when we thought she couldn't hear. I hated walking back home, full belly, new swear words in my head, all the latest gossip in my ears, and a loneliness in my soul. We should live closer, I cry out, visit more often, I say, my brother moans, because even though we hate the pieces, the whole picture is the best family and friends anyone could have.