Commoratio (kom-mor-a’-ti-o): Dwelling on or returning to one’s strongest argument. Latin equivalent for epimone.
“Where’d that boy go?” Grandma asked. Grandpa answered, “Behind the goddamn couch” answered Grandpa. “No way,” said Grandma, “He’s in the goddamn hall closet.” “No,” said Grandpa, “He’s behind the damn couch.” Grandma said, “Gran’pa, he ain’t behind the couch. He’s in the friggin’ closet.” Grandpa: “Behind the couch.” Grandma “In the closet.” “Damn you old lady,” said Grandpa, “He’s behind the couch.” “Closet.” “Couch.” “Closet.” “Couch!” They started yelling back and forth, repeating what counted for each of them as their strongest argument—which was an assertion with no backing or proof.
They were at an impasse. Their daily game of hide and seek played itself out as usual—arguing over where I was hiding. For Grandma, I was always in the closet. For Grandpa, I was always behind the couch. They were always both wrong, just repeating their “sole arguments” over and over as if they really believed them. One time Grandpa would go so far as to assert that he saw me duck behind the couch when Grandma wasn’t looking. Grandma would do likewise, saying Grandpa wasn’t looking when I slipped into the closet. Neither of them would get out of their loungers to go and see if the other was right. But, that was it. Repitition was their dominant gambit.
They were “armchair” hide and seek players—the “seek” aspect was limited to them yelling at each other from their chairs.
As always, they were both wrong. They just liked yelling at each other from their chairs. Their marriage was a life-long shouting match, with no end in sight. It was complicated by the fact they were both hard of hearing and never wore their hearing aids, except on Thanksgiving when the whole family gathered. In the meantime, I visited for the weekly hide and seek game. I was always the designated “hider.” I always hid where I’m hiding now: under the dining room table. They both knew I was hiding there, but they pretended they didn’t to make the game “more exciting.”
They were starting to get hoarse from yelling at each other, so it was time for me to come out of hiding. My grandparents saw me crawling out from under the table. I stood up and they both acted surprised. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Grandpa yelled, appearing to be startled. Grandma said, “We’ll, I’m flabbergasted. I never imagined that!” “You know damn well you did!” Grandpa yelled. “Shut up you drooling old coot!” “Over my dead body.” Growled Grandpa, and the yelling match was on. It’s what kept them together through all of their life’s changing scenarios.
For them, each insult was an avowal love. For them, love was a fifty-year-long yelling match, and I was privileged to play a role, hiding under the dining room table once a week.
