Story Time- July 31- The Meal.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that can’t be manufactured. My breath is fogging the window and my fingers itch to draw in it. A heart or smiley face. Something nonsensical and childish. It’s dusk and I imagine the silence out there matches my noiseless surroundings. I stretch my legs, and my toes poke outside the quilt I’ve coopted. I roll to my right, bringing my bare feet back under the thin cotton. Stelly is in my line of sight, head down, reading. Her hair is mostly tucked back in a braid, but a few blonde tendrils escape, framing her slim face. She’s so engrossed that she doesn’t notice my shameless adoration. She’s growing up, so fast. She barely looks like a little girl anymore. I rest my gaze on her slender fingers and her top lip, gently protruding from the braces she had put on a few months ago. The long legs she inherited from her father’s side of the family are tucked under her.

She looks up suddenly and I resist the odd urge to look down. I imagine her exasperated Leah in my head, her voice sweet but with that pre-teen shrillness. She doesn’t though. Instead, she smiles. Slow and deliberate. She tucks the wispy curls behind her ears and looks down again.

I press my hand into my heart, feeling our wordless exchange bounce around, a lost pinball knocking around a dusty machine.

Neva is laying on the adjacent couch, eyes closed and paperback resting on her midsection. There’s still a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks from the summer months, a stark contrast to the raspberry speckled turtleneck sweater encasing her small frame. I long to curl my body into the space beside her, whispering secrets into her ear and allowing my warm, stale breath to tickle her neck.

Mom is in the shower, I think, and I’m not sure where the boys, the men, have gone off to. I imagine Miles stomping around withered and curled leaves outside, with Ryan standing nearby, navy knit cap tucked over his ears, slim legs encased in old, worn denim. Dad might be puttering out there also, staring into space, and dreaming of the garden he intends to build after the frost.

I pull my body upright and Stell looks up again. I press my pointer finger into the center of my lips and she giggles softly, nodding her head.

I press all ten toes into the chilled wooden floor and reach my fingers into the air, stretching, my thin cotton for-cooking-only top rising to expose my belly. I tug on the hem and stand. As I walk toward the stove, I run my fingers along the jacquard table cloth covering the heavy wooden table that is the focal point of the room.

Mom has always favored a mismatched table-scape and holidays are no exception. Amber and royal blue crystal candle holders, brightly colored dishes with varied patterns, and cloth napkins of every thickness and design. A ceramic pitcher with an etched bird fashioned across the whole of it contains water with sliced lemon. There’s a small jar of fig preserves with an enamel handled cheese knife delicately balanced across the top and an unopened bottle of pinot noir stands proudly beside it.

I trace each setting with my eyes, absorbing tiny chips that reveal the unpainted clay beneath, flatware dotted with water spots, and linen corners that could use pressing. I think of Harriet and trips to Home Goods and the lovely couple that owned this house before we invaded.

The air around me smells like garlic and cinnamon, and I can feel it permeating my skin. Almost unconsciously, I scoop a handful of curls and press them to my nose. Lavender and bergamot and the pumpkin bread I baked earlier.

The countertop is a foreshadowing of the evening. A peeler with wayward bits of russet potato caught in its blades, granules of brown sugar, a stained thermometer perched on its side, and one lone cranberry, plump but abandoned.

I feel dizzy suddenly, overwhelmed with this moment. My people. This feast. Our place. This house is not mine, or theirs, but ours. Our place. Our sanctuary. Away from traffic and streaming services and social media and the news. Away from disappointments and despair. A house set amidst towering trees, wild turkeys, winding, hilly paths, and all the stars.

I press my chilled fingertips into the thick, historied wood of the countertop and allow my eyes to flutter closed. Behind my eyelids, I see tender green beans tossed with butter and sprinkled with sea salt, hand-mashed potatoes, crafted with cream and fresh dill, compote with mandarin oranges and dried cherries and a splash of cream soda, perfectly seasoned vegetable soup with bits of celery and carrot bobbing, like anxious swimmers, and thickly sliced multigrain bread, the crunchy edges dotted with oatmeal and sunflower seeds.  

I breathe deeply, inhaling clove, simmering onions and mushrooms, sliced orange, and something fainty yeasty.

We will not show up fantastically adorned or dressed to impress. We will value comfort above all else. We will show up prepared to share this meal that we have fashioned together, with a deep desire to love each other in the best way we know how. There will be heated debate and silly jokes and there will be moments when I look around at my people and memorize them, like this. These ages, these moments, these sentiments, this joy. All of it.

Stelly, I whisper.

She looks up, faint annoyance on her fairylike face.

Yesssss? She asks.

I’m going out onto the porch. Come get me when everyone’s ready, okay?

She half smiles then, all irritation erased. Duh, she says.

I walk out onto the porch and sink into the cushions atop the wicker couch, covering myself with a thin woolen blanket that smells musty but wholly familiar, and I close my eyes.

I smile.

Soon, I whisper into the dark.