Verde Smoke

“It was twilight. It was dark. It was basically night. Any your father was wearing his sunglasses…”

My mother pauses for effect, head poised on hand. My father continues to spice his food with salt and pepper, giving no clue as to if he has actually heard or cares what she said. I guffaw, as I often do, and wish that my brother was here - the fourth seat at the round dinner table conspiciously empty, save for a pile of my father’s clothes and papers. Once the laugh subsides, my mother continues.

Holidays with my mom’s side of the family have changed a bit over the years. When I was a kid, I have vivid memories of wearing uncomfortable dresses, then changing into regular clothes after a few short minutes. The whole generation of cousins, ranging ten years, would run around the house and yard or eat up the appetizers in seconds, in comfortable in the companionship even though we only saw each other a few times a year.

How about the tale of the trip back from my cousin’s wedding? I must preface this with the fact that this wedding was in the middle of the days when my grandmother died last year, but the semi-dysfunctional side of our family decided to still have the funeral two days after the wedding 6 hours away in Maine.