Half past twelve at night, pipe loaded with Old Gowrie (a Virginia tobacco by Rattray), out on the street. M. comes down the block with her dog and her daughter, the latter in a baby carriage because she's now too heavy to carry strapped to M.'s chest. The kid is looking much more human now.
More personality, the intelligence apparent, the dark brown eyes focused and intent. A real person. Though barely two years old.
We exchange greetings and details. Yeah, the legs (me) are worse than ever, things are good (both of us), and the kid is on her husbands schedule (her).
Her daughter does look amazingly cute.
Say 'hi' to uncle Atboth.
Uncle Atboth.
Me.
Despite my age and crappy legs, I do NOT feel avuncular. I suppose when the kid is old enough to express herself I will have to be uncle-ish.
Might even be forced to make a stab at being an adult.
For which I'll need pointers.
Jesus.
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