F is For Fighting

My boy cousins settled disagreements by wrestling themselves to the ground, rolling, squirming, and ending in sweat and tears. One afternoon, while visiting my cousins in their home, my mom and aunt sat down to coffee and an Entenmann’s cake. My aunt’s two older boys played street hockey while their little brother, Philip, watched. Philip wanted to play, and tried to get in on the action, but he was pushed out and told to play with the girls. Lots of shouting and shoving happened until finally Philip gave up in tears and grass stained knees. He burst through the door and hollered, “Sal’s dead!”. My mom, who was not accustomed to boys’ play, fell to her knees and cried “My God, Sal’s dead!?” My aunt, who was accustomed to her boys’ play, told Philip to stop crying and play inside with the girls. She turned to my mother, who was slowly realizing this was a normal brother fight, and said, “I’ll deal with Sal later.” 

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