Little Cousin

Christmas as usual provided the only excuse last year for my family to see each other in small and inoffensive doses. It is in these moments where you share the kind of conversation that no one enjoys and your uncles used to remark on how tall you'd gotten, and you were forbidden to remark on how fat they'd got.

At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.

This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.

When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.

I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?

What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.

At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."