Dinner time and my sister's 13 year old grandson strikes again..."Donald Trump's a dick with Peyronie's disease!"
"Will someone please turn off the TV!?" Pointing a serving spatula at the television and it's dinner time questionable ad for bent penises, my niece's face suddenly took on a shade of crimson approaching that of the lasagna she was getting ready to serve. Then, addressing her son, "And, as for you, we don't talk about that kind of stuff at dinner time." Luckily for the boy, his great grandmother's 91 year old increasingly unidirectional ears weren't able to hear the exchange from the other room. Otherwise, multi-generational hell would have broken loose there amid the pleasing aroma of garlic bread. My sister turns off the TV, a 16 year old behemoth twice handed down within the family and which just won't seem to die. The boy's parents don't own their own home and, with rents being what they are, big ticket purchases are scarce.
No sooner are we seated, glasses are clinked and cheers are offered than Mom's fired off the culinary equivalent of a hollow point bullet, "Who's recipe?" A round not intended for me, I'm digging in. Meanwhile, my sister and her daughter exchange glances before my sister answers for her daughter. "It's my recipe, Mom. It's made with turkey, not beef. We're trying to eat healthier." Realizing that's my cue to stave off a battle fought over a pasta playing field, I turn to my grand nephew "You seem to have changed your position on Donald Trump. What gives?" The kid's playing with his food before finally answering "Some jerk at school said I probably won't be able to attend college since Trump and Elon got rid of the Department of Education. Even if I have good grades, there won't be any money for college."
The sound of a heart breaking isn't a sound at all, but rather a silence that seems to last an eternity. In that moment, across the dinner table, that's what I heard and saw in the face of the kid's father. He works hard. I know he does. But, college dreams aren't a natural byproduct of blue collar labor. With his family's budget tight as it was, his son was going to need loans to attend college. And, regardless of the situation, a 13 year old kid should be thinking more about that girl he gave a Valentine to and less about two fucking billionaires who don't know the first thing about love. The boy's mother, my niece, was the first to break the silence. "First, that kid's a snot nose little punk who doesn't know anything. Second, there's a long time to go between now and when you go off to college. Eat."
While this answer may have sufficed for some, it wasn't enough for Mom. 91 years of life has tempered her and turned her into the kind of psychic warrior Yoda would admire. She had another verbal round loaded, except this time it wasn't aimed at anyone at the table. "That son of a bitch. He ruins everything he touches." Looking at her great grandson, she asked "What have I told you about obstacles?" I already knew the words the kid was going to say, because they belong to a secret language Mom introduced me to many years before. "We go over them. If we can't go over them, we go under them. If we can't go under them, we go around them. If we can't go around them, we go through them." That's right. He wasn't done though. "Grandma called Donald Trump a son of a bitch." Yes she did. And, deservedly so.
= new reply since forum marked as read
It has swelled my heart and about brought me to tears. No words of mine can suffice. 
Thank you.
