Wrinkled

"I can make a peach pit with my chin" - look - and I rub softly at the wrinkled knob. "And I can do THIS with my tongue." Reid imitates the clover leaf tongue trick and we gaze at our images in the big mirror across from the dining room table. "Listen" he yells, and we quiet down expectantly, young and old, my dad with his comb poised in mid stroke, Pam pulling her long hair into a loose pony tail, Heather with a spoon hanging, balanced, from the end of her perfect nose. "Listen and he opens his mouth wide and knocks a tune out by rapping his knuckles on the top of his head.  Laughter, squeals, oohs and ahhs.  "Look what I can do" we all seem to yell at once and we all in turn, or more often together and overlapping, show off our silly talents as our dad watches and our mother giggles and we believe the look in his eyes and the smile on her face. We believe them, that we are the most wonderful, the most talented. The next day I will show the group of people at school my wonderful new-found talents, and somehow they won't care; it won't be fun.  But even when I realize I'm not the most wonderful, I still know I am the most lucky.

(This was an 8 minute, Lynda Barryesque writing from the word prompt "wrinkled.")