Youngest uncle (and aunt): 174 Series Part 6

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There’s always an ace of spades in your mother’s family. And in Bangladeshi linguistic, it is defined as ‘the youngest uncle.’

I fail to contemplate any given circumstances where his innate extraordinary prowess hasn’t made a smooth sailing for me. A comfort show? A food my stomach bellows for? A software anomaly which needs his jurisdiction? All green 10s.

Naruto you see me voicing my unending admiration over? It’s his doing. One day, I land in his room with an orange clad, whisker inked blond boy in his juvenility, and suddenly I am home.

Forever indebted for the safe haven. All the do’s and don’t of a computer. Absorbing the woes which come with my special needs sibling and attempting his best way out. Handing me a glass of carbonated delicacy when there is.

He is a bit of a jaunty wordsmith himself, and wrote small, horrific yet not so poems for his nephews and nieces.

I’d throw a fit when I heard mine. Because it appeared horrific for my eight years old self.

Similarly, how I wondered when he got coupled with his other half.

But she grew fond of me with age, and still greets me with a lifelike joy, like she does to her two precious bundles.

Like every air conditioner with an outlet, my entropic engine has an outlet too.

A breeze of cool air, these two.

I'm 26 and awkward. Dreaming big so if it breaks, the pieces are in thousands.

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