I was secretly hoping that with all the snow and ice we’ve had all week that I might be able to postpone dinner with my parents; however, the roads had mostly thawed by the afternoon leaving me no excuse not to visit them.
I miss the days when I actually enjoyed going over there. Before my legal troubles began, I’d visit my parents two or three times a month. We’d spend the day cooking together in the kitchen and talk about new recipes we’ve tried and the latest developments in my mother’s vegetable garden. Afterwards, we’d gather at the dinner table to enjoy a fabulous meal followed by dessert and coffee in the living room.
None of those things have changed, but the intentions have. When my father hugs me, it’s because he doesn’t know how much time he has left with his son. And when my mother laughs, it’s because she wants to forget.
It seems like everything reminds me of what I’ve lost.