Thanksgiving with my parents, at my house of course.
Sabrina entertains us with a story, “My woodworking teacher sent me and a friend to get wood from the basement. I didn’t even know there was a basement at school.”
We all sit silently waiting for the story to unfold. “I know what’s down there – guns. My teacher told me a long time ago. So when he sent me there, I was scared to go.”
“But you didn’t know there was a basement,” I comment.
“Yes, I did,” Sabrina replies, shocked at the stupidity of my statement.
“You said you didn’t know.”
“I knew,” she brushes my argument aside, wanting to carry on with the story. “The guns are for the war – because they used to have wars at my school. But they’re not there anymore. It’s only wood.”
“There aren’t guns at your school,” I exclaim.
“The stairs were so rickety. We were scared to go down.”
“There aren’t guns at your school. And there’s no war. Don’t repeat that to anyone. There will be a lockdown!”
She carries on about the rickety stairs and trying to find wood without “names” on it.
This is my life – all day, everyday.
So much more awkward when there are witnesses