We had a peaceful Thanksgiving dinner in Kempton. John's parents cannot travel anymore so we go to them. It was a smaller group than some years, only eight besides us, but there was no shortage of food. We began packing up to leave about six thirty and as I walked Ben out to the car he slipped on the ice. He yelled. Loudly. Landing on his back and wrist he hurled every insult he could think of in the direction of action figures. It was a rocky exit, but we coaxed him into the car and jollied him with songs on the drive home.

We played the game where you say a word and everyone has to find a song that includes it.

"Naughty." I tossed out. He launched into You Better Watch Out, which he knows every word to. 

"Corn cob." Ben sang every verse of Frosty the Snowman.

He put himself to bed and was soon asleep while the rest of us indulged in movies and popcorn.

In the morning he was still angry. He demanded to be taken to the hospital immediately, but it was neither discolored nor swollen. He allowed me to gently massage it, without the slightest sign of flinching. He continued to libel every villain in his Rolodex. John fetched a wrist brace and arnica, and I called the doctor. They were cordial enough and said we could bring him in, but probably all they would do would be to wrap it. 

I kept asking how he felt but for Ben that is like asking what is going on in his pancreas. He has no idea. 

As chance would have it I woke up with an aching back as well, which made a wider bridge for feeling empathy. I did not feel great. He did not feel great. We could both take it easy on this buffer day between baking pies and the Christmas scramble.