Little Red Bag

 If you’ve ever seen this bag sitting between my mother and me, you might have noticed the shouting, cursing, the accusations of cheating or making things up.  If you’ve dipped your own hand into this bag, chances are you joined in the shouting and cursing and real or imagined cheating.  You also would have laughed your head off with us, gasping for breath, trying to get made-up words out of your mouth.  You might have sat there for hours with us on a Summer morning, drinking cup after cup of coffee, the caffeine making your hands shake and your brain sharp listening to a tiny Filipino woman make fun of you for being so bad at the game. You would be reminded that you grew up speaking English and you were still getting your ass kicked by someone for whom English wasn’t even a first (or second) language.  She had a hundred words you never heard before and a face that made it impossible to tell when she was bluffing.  I’d give anything to sit with her again and shout and her for three hours and listen to her laugh at me.  Glunches?  Seriously, mom?