Wazza

Wazza moves around the house like a war general who never fully retired. Every time he sits down, he sighs like the government personally betrayed him. Every time he stands up, he groans like he’s being drafted again. I don’t even look up anymore. It’s just part of the ambiance. Like birds. Or traffic.

He loves telling me stories that start with, “In Vietnam…” and then absolutely never finish in Vietnam. He’ll take a left turn into some bullshit about a dodgy mechanic, or a mate named Kev who once tried to barbeque roadkill. I don’t think he’s avoiding talking about the war. I think he’s just committed to the bit.

He calls me “kiddo” like he’s the wise mentor in a coming-of-age movie, even though half the time he’s the one asking me how to update the apps on his phone. He’ll pour me wine with that smug dad-energy like he retired at 46 because he’s a genius and I’m just now catching up.

When he dies, I’m going to fight God.

Not because I’ll miss him, but because he’d think it was funny.