A Writing Confession and a Tribute to Cousins (I did it there)

I know how to spell the word ‘cousins’, truly I do. See? I just did it. I really had to think about it, though. Most of the time my fingers write ‘cousings’. It feels right. My brain says C-O-U-S-I-N-S and my fingers acknowledge the message, ignore it, and write ‘cousings’ every time. If you’re at a keyboard, try it now. Cousings. It feels right.

I do it so often I’ve turned on a function to correct it automatically, ensuring that I will never learn, and no longer want to. Strangely, the word ‘cousin’ doesn’t have the same problem. My finger doesn’t leap for that G.

I share some core memories with my cousins (did it), and they deserve to have the word spelled correctly. So, to my cousins (almost did it, but caught myself), I love you, and here’s a poem:

The Family of Cousings.

Mother’s sister’s child
Father’s brother’s, places between.
The life of time pulses in our connection.

The molding of
“That’s my toy” rules of a different house,
Moments of profound disorientation upon waking, pre-dawn, during sleepovers.

Together we discovered drink.
Eight legal within four years of each other,
Then a decade of remorseless hangovers.

You’ve chiseled me with blades of camping trips,
Stags and Weddings,
Kissing your friends,
Pulled hair, biting,
Beer League Baseball,
Exchanging political rants,
Funerals,
Great hugs and
Thunderous high fives.

Each cut was exquisite.