Tradition

Uncle Dan was drunk by lunch. On his back, on the front porch, wearing Grandpa’s old bunny-rabbit suit. A crusty stain down the front. He was supposed to be watching all the cousins look for painted, hard-boiled eggs in the backyard. But here he was, laying so that no one could open the door more than a foot without it banging his head.

The cousins stood by the woodpile. Throwing their found eggs, trying to hit him. Two points for the belly, five for the face. Ten, if it exploded.

One missed. High and wide. Right through the front window.