Every Good Boy Does Fine

          There were my parents, and one angel, and one delinquent. My sister would announce my daily transgressions when my folks came home. Breaking my mom’s favorite vase, a huge glass sphere with a philodendron vine sweeping out of it, while playing fortune-teller, was report-worthy.
          I stuffed the vine in a yellow mixing bowl. My sister chortled one of her evil angel laughs.
          My mom, when my sister pointed out the bowl, picked up the first implement within reach — her favorite Martin ukulele — and splintered it across my butt. I wonder if she regretted that more than I did.