Because It Was Sunday
My father was reading Golf Digest in his chair. I was reading about
ancient heroes (made up kinds). My father was my ancient hero. Mother
passed through on horseback. Twigs and Spanish moss like grandfather's
beard in her hair tangled. She waved. We waved. Father did it without
looking up. This was how we spent Easter Sunday, not because it was
Easter but because it was Sunday.
Time must have passed because I was sautéing mushrooms next
and draped with too-big gingham pants belted high. What's for dinner,
someone asked. What's on your plate, I said.
Suddenly a nasty accident saved us.
Mother sold her quarter horses. Dad, his clubs. I turned over my
skillets and books. We got to know each other gradually. Videos of us
picnicking were made. This was a happy ending. This was a happy ending
and over our food we prayed.
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