Thaumasmus

Thaumasmus (thau-mas’-mus): To marvel at something rather than to state it in a matter of fact way.

Dear Ma,

Oh wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! I am stupefied, flabbergasted, and flipped out. I am bonkers. Over the rainbow. Flying high. Beamed up. Rockin’ out. You finally answered one of my emails. It only took two years. But I am persistent. You’re my mother. I thought it would take only a couple of weeks to get through to you. Look, I’ll put my cards on the table: I ruined your life, to a certain extent. When you found Dad rollin’ between the sheets with one of Jessy’s community college friends, anger was appropriate. You saw them, but they didn’t see you. You watched through a crack in the door, as they groaned and twisted and squirmied around like a couple of earthworms in heat. You snapped, but you pretended nothing was wrong. Dad had made a fool out of himself, slobbering after somebody half his age, but beautiful, smart and artistically inclined. She made beautiful hand-cut doilies and paper mache planet mobiles that she sold at the town market on Thursdays. She was so much better than you, but that shouldn’t matter to an aging overweight woman who used to be average-looking before the big butt and saggy boobies took over—and the dye job on your hair. It’s not a real hair color—it looks like pumpkin pie, but it smells like hard-boiled eggs. But you’re a mature, smart woman with a PhD in European Angst Studies. I thought you would’ve borne your woes like a weight lifter bench pressing hell and anger, using them to build you up, not tear you down.

I thought you could take it after you told me what had happened. I thought your education and life experiences would get you by. When you asked to borrow my pistol to learn “another skill,” I thought nothing of it. Dad seemed a little worried, but I paid no attention. He worried about everything. I still remember how he worried when Japanese beetles started eating his garden. He just sat by the garden box shaking his head, and then, lit the garden on fire.

But anyway, we went to the shooting range a couple of times, and then you told me you were ready. “Ready for what?” I asked. You said, “You’ll see.” Then I realized you were going to shoot Dad. I called 911. There was a two-day stand-off with cops circling our house. You made Dad dance to the tune of the pistol, firing toward his feet. Then, you put the gun down on the kitchen table. You surrendered and the police took you away. You got five years. What a shame.

Dad and Lucinda are having a baby. They are so happy, and so am I. Please stay away from us when you get out of prison. It could only lead to trouble. By the way, you left behind some jewelry. Do you mind if I sell it?

Your son,

Joey

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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