When I was two or three, I accompanied my grandfather to my uncle’s house, where he had gone to borrow one of his two bowling balls. I followed him to the closet where he kept them, a tiny little blond toddler.
“Uncle Mike,” I said. “I don’t even have a bowling ball.”
That’s the story I was told. When telling it, he always grinned and said “And I thought, no shit, Summer.”
My aunt and uncle came to commencement yesterday. After the ceremony, I rode with them and my grandparents back to my apartment. They handed me a giant, heavy gift bag and told me to read the card first.
“You’ve finally earned a bowling ball,” it read. “Love Uncle Mike.”
It was incredibly sweet. It’s sitting in my living room. Since A) I never bowl and B) it would rip my arm off if I tried to use it, I have no idea what I’ll do with it, but I’m definitely going to keep it.
You’ll have a bit of a story to tell people who ask why you have a bowling ball when you never bowl.