The Debate of Arguing

We were arguing. Kissy said debating. I said arguing. Over what bits and pieces we were going to take. How pathetic. This argument should have been finished two hours ago, but here we were going at it like little kids again.

“No, I want the green one,” Kissy whined.

“You can’t have the green one. The green one is mine, Mom left it for me. It’s her favorite color after all and I was her favorite,” I said, watching Kissy tenderly stroke the green and gold ring.

Kissy mashed up his lips, a habit since his teens and stared at the ring with much more intensity. “Mom would have wanted me to have it. She said I held a special place in heart.”

“What are ya talkin’ about? She said that to me too!”

“Well then that means Mom was a liar. And green wasn’t her favorite color, it was orange,” he said.

I gasped and took a hold of the ring. It was heavy and I slid it in my index finger, it fit too small, but I wedged it in. “How can you say that! Our poor mother must be turning in her grave!”

“She was cremated,” Kissy replied, his eyes watching that ring of mine. “And you would have known that if you had gone to the service.”

“You didn’t go either," I retorted.

Kissy snorted. “Who cares? No one does. Now give me that ring, its mine!”

“No its not!”

And the arguing continued, though Kissy said debating.