I walk my mom to the back door and point at the temperature gauge. The exterior thermometer, a right of passage for any Midwestern father, sits mounted just outside the door.
The mercury from within stretches down far enough to read this Chicago December day, “This is why I am moving to California.”
The rest of the day is spent reclining in my fathers chair enjoying a view not often available. I bring me a piece of Sconni’ down to the home land to keep it real, finish it off and head out to put an ass whoop’n on my brother. Two games to none and I am 236 & 0. Sucker thought he had the ups to take down his big bro.
Keep practicing I say, retreating back into my holiday football coma.
My grams stops by later and I swear to god she looks like Andy Warhol. I expected a can of tomato soup to fall out of her hair when she plops down on the couch. She would stay in that spot for the next 5 hours.
So much for watching football.
Christmas was good.
