le dimanche soir

The sun is setting in the corner of the house as sheaths of light streak through the window and shatter on the mirror into hundreds of pieces across the ceiling. I smell curry stirring in the orange crock pot and she's running around the kitchen, flicking poppadums in and out of the toaster oven. The cat darts around the floor, stopping only to wipe her greasy face against the side of the refrigerator in a plea for one more handful of her favorite kibble, leaving behind a dark smudge in the same corner of the fridge that has been accumulating her fur dirt for far too many years. 

My mother's heavy plastic bottom slippers scrape across the indian tiles as she goes back and forth from the oven, to cupboard, to stovetop and around again. "DER!" she yells. "Could ya gi'us a hand, please!" My dad, who is busy choosing music in the other room, closes a CD case, presses play and adjusts the volume on the large music system. Dire Straits' "So Far Away" starts over the speakers as he dances his way down the corridor, and says, for what is probably going to be the eleventy-billionth time, "What! But I'm not s'posed to hafta skivvy -- that's a woman's job! Evvvverybody knows that!" My mother has been ignoring this crusty and overused joke since I was about eleven and it shows -- the words drift by unnoticed and he begins to pour drinks on the countertop. A tall pint of his homebrew and a Strongbow for my mom. "One for me too, please!" I chime in. In the other room, my sister sits on the couch wearing an old high school soccer t-shirt and sweatpants. "Strongbow!" she suddenly shouts, throwing her book to one side, hurrying into the kitchen. I nod overenthusiastically with a big toothy smile at my sister, who returns the ugly grin and we watch as the cider fills the glasses. 

The table is set and my mother covers her hands in a dishtowel to carry the steaming pot of chicken curry to the table as I slap the knob on the wall to turn on the light above the table. The sun has almost disappeared behind the mountains leaving behind traces of the desert heat. "Mango chutney, cucumbers, a bit of tomato, poppadums and rice," she says, making sure everything is accounted for. "Serving spoons!" she chirps, to which my dad points his index finger toward the ceiling and turns back into the kitchen. The drawers in the kitchen pull open then shut again as we all take our places at the table. 

He returns and he raises his glass: "I propose a piece of grilled bread to us -- here's to us, and those like us: not many, and they're all dead!"