Erupting Nuts

Bill and I were sitting on our bed watching as the news of the Boston Marathon bombing unfold.  We had been glued to the TV for about an hour of non-stop coverage, holding hands and expressing feelings of sadness and anger and horror throughout the broadcast, when we heard the soft hiss of Mom’s power wheelchair as it made its way down the hall toward our room.  She stopped outside our bedroom and, as only Mom can, put things into perspective by announcing emphatically, “Boy, the nuts are erupting everywhere!”

Bill and I looked at each other, than at Mom, who was staring at us from the doorway, apparently waiting for our reaction.

“Are you talking about the Boston Marathon bombing?” I asked.

“That too,” she said solemnly.

“Did something else happen?” Bill asked.

“Yes.  No.  Well, I think so.  An 8-year old boy was killed somewhere, I know that.”

“That was at the Marathon, Mom,” I said.

“Well maybe.  But there was something else except I forgot.  It’ll come back to me,” she said, hitting the joystick and moving away.  “I’ll write it down for you as soon as I remember,” she called out to us as she retreated back down the hallway.

We sat quietly for a few moments, the drone of the news anchor acting as background noise before I turned to Bill and whispered, “Erupting nuts?”

“Sounds painful,” he commented with a grimace.  “Like some kind of weird men’s disease.”


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