I will get to this eventually

Maybe things weren’t so great but they were bound to get better. They had moved into the house on South Hampton Boulevard in the Summer of 1972 when slanted roofs and lime green counter tops were acceptable, desired even. Henry was born the following spring and his arrival was signaled by a cardboard cut out of a stork and the baby’s weight and measurements drawn out in script for the entire neighborhood to see. There were pictures of it with his parents standing in the front yard holding their newest addition, their awkward bodies framed by winter’s recession and the triumph of green grass. His father had passed out cigars and was patted on the back until the skin on his shoulders grew tired. Every year on Henry’s birthday, his mother insisted on reliving the entire experience in graphic detail, hour by hour. Right around now you woke me up, and I knew that it was time. They had to give me thirty six stitches because you had such a big head. And afterwards, I was so filled with joy that I danced right there in my hospital room. The idea of his mom giving birth sickened him but he let her tell the story anyway; Even the part about the stitches. It was the least he could do.