Edward bent to pick up the cereal box. His hands moved slowly, buying time he did not know how to fill.
“Brittany,” he said, “we’re going.”
She looked ready to refuse again.
***
Sunday arrived with humidity pressing against the windows.
George grilled burgers even though he had announced three times that we should order pizza and avoid knives.
The grandchildren ran through the sprinkler in our backyard, shrieking when the water turned toward them.
Brittany sat at the patio table with her purse in her lap.
Brittany sat at the patio table.
George brought me a plate before making his own.
He always did that.
“Too much mustard?” he asked.
“You always put too much mustard.”
“And yet you married me.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said.
He always did that.
Our oldest grandson, Caleb, slid into the chair beside me, dripping water onto the patio.
“Grandma, do you have baby pictures of Dad?”
Edward groaned from near the grill.
“Absolutely not.”
George grinned.
“Basket in the hall closet, champ.”
Edward pointed a spatula at him.
“Traitor.”
“Basket in the hall closet, champ.”
The children were already running inside.
Kilka minut później Caleb wrócił z wiklinowym koszykiem na zdjęcia. Jego młodsza siostra, Nora, szła za nim z obiema rękami pełnymi albumów.
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