Gray Matter

I had already said good-bye to my parents and my aunts and uncles, leaving them by the spread of desserts.  Allison and Skip were standing by the banister, chatting about this, that and the other thing.  I joined them before setting out.

"Be careful or you'll get gray hairs like me," Skip was saying to Allison.

"Yeah, I've already got one, see?" I said, reaching for random hairs above my forehead.  I'd acquired one silver hair the winter before, a hair that sticks straight off of my head like some sort of spindly limb waving in the breeze.  I noticed it for the first time when I moved back home after graduation.  I assumed, though, that it had sprung from my head during the hours spent researching and drafting my senior thesis.  And, owing that I didn't see too much of a mirror that semester, this is entirely likely.

I couldn't tell if I'd located the rogue hair, but my uncle was gazing at me with that signature look of his, the one that always seems to be seeing you for the first time, amused and proud, no matter what he's about to say.

"That's stress, you know.  You worry too much."  Eff, I know.  And now I have one more thing to worry about, thanks.  But I didn't say that, just laughed it off, awkwardly.

I hugged my cousin and then made to move toward the door.  Skip followed me, stopping at the hall closet to get his coat.  I really didn't want him to walk me to my car, as much as I appreciated the gesture.  I could feel myself closing up, as though bracing against the elements, and I didn't think I'd be able to muster up any amount of familial small-talk.

"Still making coffee?"  Eh.  Not one of my favorite topics.

"Yep.  That's why I have to get home early.  I'm opening tomorrow."

"Ah.  Well don't work too hard.  Try to have some fun while you're there."

"I always do."  Liar.

"I love you, kiddo."  My throat closed up.  My own father doesn't say that to me.  Really, with the exception of my mother, those words don't get passed around here too much.

"I love you too."  hug.kiss.the smell of cigarettes and the scratch of wiry mustache hairs.

I started the car and felt the pressure in my chest, a swell of pride and gratitude trying to escape in the force of my exhalation.  Right, left, right turn, and the oncoming headlights began to blur.  The sound of sobbing surprised even me, but it was gone as quickly as it'd come.

Tears have a quota to be reached, and gray hairs too.  Dark cars headed for empty houses are good in a pinch; at least then no one has to watch you break.