“Did Poppi kill the bear or save it?,” asks my son months after my dad was buried.
Because for a while I was with & never without her. For a good bit my mom was fully, really here.
I tap the fridge door closed with my right foot while completing a 92-degree turn to pour and place apple juice into a sippy cup and onto a table. My husband swivels precisely to my left, avoiding a collision, plate of mac’n’cheese balanced atop bowl of grapes. Three steps back he takes. Two-and-a-half forward for me. …
And this was what Christmas was. And this was what a family looked like. And it would take some time before I knew anything different and concluded that different wasn’t better at all.
There is a sweet-smelling baby foot ripe for the gobbling, and you better believe I’m coming back for seconds!