Gemotions

The clinking of ice in his whiskey glass was a nervous counterpoint to the pronouncements. Uncle Jerry, typically a purveyor of bland pronouncements about the weather, was now waxing lyrical about the merits of Zen Buddhism. A thin, almost inaudible chuckle escaped me. I swirled the amber liquid, the movement of my fingers a barely contained thrill.

He gestured dramatically, a half-eaten scone perched precariously on his plate. "The interconnectedness, you see!" he boomed, his voice cracking with the fervor of someone discovering sliced bread. I almost choked on my own laughter.

My cousin, Sarah, across the table, was visibly mortified, her jaw tight. I just took another sip, the cold liquid a pleasant burn against the rising tide of…well, a certain lightness in my chest. He was going to try and meditate. This was going to be brilliant.