you have one minute to explain 296 words

      I hate cleaning my teenaged son's room. He never puts his things a way. There is always an order of dirty socks. I am a little disgusted by the wall to wall bearly dressed girl posters. I pick up the dirty clothes just hoping that he would grow up to be appreciate women.



    I was just thinking about what they may become when they grow up, when something falls out of the front pocket of his blue jeans. I pick it up thinking that it is trash that he pick up from the floor. He and I both pick up trash and put it in our pocket until we get to the trash can.



    I opened it up. I was shocked, an once of marijuana. “My son knows better!”  was all that I could think. I made up my mind to wait for him in the place where I found the stash.



    Robert comes running into his room. “Mom, we won. The score was 23 to 10.” He sees that I have no reaction to his good news. “What is wrong?” He seemed to be very concerned.



    I hold up the bag. “Where did you get this?”



    “It isn't mine, I swear.”



    “It was in your pocket,” I reply as I pick up the telephone. “You have one minute to explain this before I call the law.”



    With the anger of hell in his eyes he shouts, “It's not mine. It was yours. I found it in the car, and did not want little Sally to see it.” He turns and runs out of his room.



    I remember making the run yesterday. “Damn, it was mine.” I whispered as I placed the bag into my own pocket.