Write about something that is: missing.
This morning Kat's dad and I began work our latest construction project - a deck for our house. During the outdoor time of year (read: the majority of the time) it's pretty much going to double our living space. Plus it'll be nice not to be on the uneven dirt to eat dinner or relax on our chairs.
Definitely a slow start to things, but this foundation stuff needs to be right. I don't mind the project taking a bit longer if it means only doing it once. Which will hopefully be the case.
Us kids always looked forward to those rare visits from Uncle James. Not that he was particularly nice, or brought good presents, or nothing like that. It was all the mystery that he carried with him, the endless speculation that sprung up at the mere mention of his name.
Probably would have been less of an event if Mom and Dad would've just told us why Uncle James was missing the middle finger of his left hand. Heck, we weren't even supposed to look at it.
Like that was going to happen.
Me and my brothers figured he'd lost it in some kind of gang initiation, proving he was tough enough to join. Never you mind that Uncle James was as quiet and gentle as a mouse. We just figured prison had scared him straight.
My sisters came up with some total nonsense stories of their own that I hardly ever paid attention to. There was one about a horse biting it off after he waved his finger in its face one too many times. Totally stupid. Uncle James never wore no cowboy boots or hats or anything like that!
We tried to trick him into telling us what happened but it seemed like he was always one step ahead of us. I bet Mom and Dad warned him we were going to try, the snitches.