the rite of way

(ku)nihito

I was born into a very religious family. Sunday was a day of worship. A day to rest from our labors and reflect on our blessings. Sundays were tradition and family and laughter.

My mother would march us into church Sunday morning scrubbed and plaited and rosy cheeked. We were expected to sit quietly, hands to ourselves, unslouching on the pew. We were expected to take the sacrament without giggling and sing the hymns aloud. She was strict that way.

And yet, without fail, halfway through the hour, she would lean close to me and whisper in my ear, "Roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, green salad, rolls and carrots. And for dessert, your favorite, German chocolate cake. Two layers." Then she would give a quick mischievous grin and poof! she would snap back into a dutiful parishioner.

To say that Sunday dinner is a big deal in my parent's house would be a gross understatement. Resting from our labors doesn't apply to this particular event. Every week two table leafs are brandished and the nice dishes are set. Grandparents arrive in time to kiss every child before the meal is served. Potatoes are mashed and roasted beasts are carved, usually by Grandpa who divys out the samples from the end of the knife.

I don't live near my family now that I'm (supposedly) all grown up. I've tried to recreate the type of Sunday dinner that my mother puts on, but the atmosphere is lacking and my mashed potatoes aren't the same.

I love my little corner of the world here by the sea, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could be little again and have my mother whisper in my ear and listen to my family laugh together around the dinner table.

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