That’s the Mitt Romney bag.

On Saturday Ryan, my parents and I convened at Timber’s apartment in Augusta to celebrate her 30th Birthday. Instead of a hug or chorus of blowing kazoos, Timber and Mother’s back-and-forth fussing greeted us. During Timber’s morning jog she and her friend darted onto an historic street, and just as she started to comment on its cobblestone charm, her foot caught on a brick and she fell. Big red blobs adorned her forehead, left knee and delicate shoulder; her right knee had split open and wouldn’t stop bleeding. So, Mother insisted that Timber either go to the hospital or purchase some steri-strips at the nearest drugstore.

“It’s not that big of a deal, Mother!” Timber hollered, gesticulating her frustration with one hand while pressing a wad of toilet paper against her gushing leg with the other. “GOD!”

Just after Daddy and Ryan had cracked open a couple Terrapin beers (yes, Mother allows Daddy to ingest alcohol now), Mother requested that Ryan and I pick up as many steri-strips as a $20 bill would buy. Ryan and I drove to the Rite Aid eight tenths of a mile away, expecting the errand to consume less than 10 minutes. However, the obviously bored cashier remained adamant about convincing me to sign up for a wellness+ rewards card.

“No thank you,” I smiled, sliding my money toward her.

“Are you sure? You’ll save money today!”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It only will take a few minutes.”

“No, ” I forced a grin, waving the bill in her face.

“Do you shop here often?”

“No, I’m from out of town.”

“Oh really? Where are you from?”

“Atlanta.”

“Well if you sign up for the card, you’ll save money away from home.”

“No.”

And so on.

When the woman finally took the cash, she licked her thumb to separate every dollar bill from a stack of new ones that comprised my change.

“What took you so long?” Mother asked when we finally returned to the apartment.

“You don’t want to know,” I sighed, tossing the steri-strips onto Timber’s couch.

The conversation transitioned to Mother voicing her concerns about Timber’s prospective scar. “It’s just too bad this happened.”

“You should definitely get stitches if you think you need them. I still have a scar from a moped accident when I was 15,” Ryan mentioned, lifting his left pant leg to display what we thought would be discolored flesh.

“I don’t see anything,” Timber squinted.

“Me either,” Mother bent over.

“It must be the other leg,” Ryan said, revealing his right shin.

“I still don’t see anything,” Timber crossed her arms.

“Nope,” Mother kneeled.

“I guess it wasn’t that bad then,” Ryan admitted, straightening his jeans.

“Well I’ve got a pretty bad one on this shin,” Daddy announced from the corner, exposing a hairy patch of smooth pink skin.

“Well I had to get my knee stapled back together after that boating fiasco,” I challenged Daddy, pulling down my pants.

“Bobbin, what are you doing?!?!” Timber gasped, as if I were acting out of character.

“What? We’re family. Anyway, I’m wearing skinny jeans. I can’t yank these past my ankles. Check out this scar.”

Ryan smirked, shaking his head; Mother agreed that I won The Scar Contest; Daddy, disgusted, silently faced the the wall. He didn’t turn around until well after I had redressed.

The five of us crammed around Timber’s dining room table and ate ourselves into a state of mid-afternoon fatigue before watching Timber open her presents. Mother wrapped all of the gifts in elephant print paper.

“Where’d you get this wrapping paper?” Timber asked. “I like it.”

“At the Republican National Convention. Mitt Romney gave it to her,” Daddy said.

“I got it at World Market,” Mother giggled.

Timber wears the Mitt Romney bag.

After Timber had unwrapped a particularly large box, she taped the paper back together to create a sack. Naturally, she put it on her head. Blood that had seeped around the steri-strip stained the paper.

“That’s the Mitt Romney bag,” Daddy pointed. His wit moved more swiftly than my understanding of his joke.

“Haha!” I clapped a couple minutes too late.

Soon Mother and Daddy packed up their car and began the four-hour drive back home. Timber and I jogged down the sidewalk waving at our parents for a few feet. After Timber stopped I picked up my pace and attempted to hold their attention. However, their gaze turned forward while Mother gained speed, as if this were just another Birthday celebrated on the living room floor in Calhoun and life were normal. I stomped to a halt and clasped my hands on the top of my head, reminding myself I’ll see Mother and Daddy again in a couple weeks.