I’ll Be So Blue Just Thinking About You

Mom has a curious way of moving about the kitchen, hovering over each ingredient as if her distance will provoke their disappearance. She threw the ham in the oven about an hour ago, which means the present moment is for side dishes—corn casserole, green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, homemade noodles, apple pie, peach pie, blackberry pie, cheesecake so richly layered you could excavate the slice and unearth a fossil. I watch her prepare these dishes, propping an elbow on top of Grandma’s kitchen peninsula, drumming my fingertips against its granite. The windows are open. As Mom hums “Blue Christmas,” the curtains dance to her tune.

The curtains aren’t the only ones dancing. As mom sprinkles fried onions over the green beans, she swings her head and hips in slow motion, a slight bounce punctuating each sway. Mom doesn’t normally cook. That’s Dad’s job. Mom’s job is a nine-to-five stay-at-home gig that extends from eight to eleven most weekdays. But she’s cooking for us now because it’s Christmas and because, if she didn’t do it, then Grandma would, and Grandma is a seventy-four-year-old with cancer. So Mom does the cooking, and she does it with care. This dinner is for us to enjoy and for her to impress.

In the adjoining family room, my father, grandfather, cousin, and uncle sit watching the ongoing football game, Ravens vs. Steelers. Dad and Grandpa are only half-watching—Dad with his iPad resting on bent knees, the Chicago Tribune apparent on screen; Grandpa, also with a paper in his lap, this one the Orlando Sentinel and a physical copy.

In Grandpa’s right hand is a pen for his crossword, which he grips in waves. At one moment, he will balance the pen between the tips of two fingers, flittering it back and forth as he thinks and, in the next, he will raise the pen slightly before scribbling something down. It has been only a few minutes since Grandpa turned to page A18—the newsprint rustling as he did—yet the puzzle is nearly a quarter complete, his expression relaxed but purposeful as he settles into his post-lunch ritual.

At the foot of the recliner, my dog, Miley, stares up at the old man with big, pouty dog eyes, letting out intermittent squeals in hopes to command his affection. Grandpa is used to commands. He had been a marine for twenty-one years. But where he would routinely stand at attention upon the command of an officer, he refuses to take orders from a dog. At ease, boy, he directs in response. Miley is a girl. We correct him on this constantly.

…

The completed version of this piece will be made available upon request.