As is required, Easter dinner is ham-centric, cheesy
potatoes and dinner rolls orbiting the bone-in delight like little side dish
satellites.
And there is, of course, wine.
“I don’t know,” my sister says.“I mean, look at us.We’re getting old, right?”
As the oldest, I feel it my duty to stare at her.
“Seriously,” she says.“I’m 50.Do you know what that
means?”
Fully two years older than she is, I reach over, jab a
particularly juicy morsel of ham on her plate.
“Pearl,” she says.“I’m 50.Is that old?”
I grin at her, push the ham into my mouth.“Yes.”
My father – salesman, catamaran captain, ex-crop duster
and pilot, former drummer for an all-lesbian country-western band, holds a hand
up.
“Old,” he says, hazel eyes dancing with barely hidden
mischief, “is always 15 years older than you are.”
My mother takes a sip of wine.“Bear in mind,” she says quietly, “that your
father will be 75 in two weeks.”
Karen looks at me, jabs at my plate, liberating me from a
spear of asparagus.“Did ya hear
that?The old guy at the head of the
table says that 90-year-olds are elderly.”
She holds her glass up, and I lean forward with my
own.Clink.
“Damn right,” my father says.He holds his plate up.“Mumma?” he says.“We got any more of that delicious ham
gravy?”
My mother sighs, rises anyway.“It’s on the center island, Paul,” she
says.“Right where it was 10 minutes
ago.”
My father winks at me.“She likes to keep busy, your mother.Keeps her young.”
My mother returns to the table with the gravy boat.
“I heard that,”
she says.