Father and I sit side-by-side, upper bodies parallel, with our elbows resting on the black and white marbled countertop as we watch our women perform the evening ritual of cleaning up after dinner. I am young enough to remain observer, but old enough to realize I will soon join in this dance with a thin white dishtowel of my own hanging from my forearm.
My mother, aunt, and grandmother do-si-do their round, matching hips around one another as they circle from sink to counter to refrigerator, one always stepping in just as the other is leaving. The start and stop of running water, open and close of the refrigerator, and tap, tap, tap of dishes meeting the counter creates a beat that lulls me into a trance, and through blurry eyes, I follow the hems of their pink and red skirts as they paint the black and white tiled kitchen floor.
The pattern slows, almost pauses. My eyes focus on Grandmother crouched in front of the refrigerator, taking too long. Mother is standing behind her, waiting, with a bowl of green, white, and yellow seven-layer salad in hand. Grandmother stands, turning toward the center of the room, and her face is pinched like she’s sucking in too hard. She must be thinking of Grandfather who lies dying in the next room. It won’t be long now. Mother sets the salad on the counter, hugs Grandmother, and then, while her sister steps in to offer a second hug, she picks up the salad and returns it to the refrigerator. The pattern resumes.
Father sits upright, pulling his elbows from the counter and turning down the corners of his mouth. Hand stretched out as she sets a dish on the counter to dry, Mother catches his gaze and holds it pointedly, expressionlessly, refusing to register his disapproval. She will not entertain his hopes that Grandfather — the man he calls Ben and friend — will live to see one hundred. Only ten years to go. Mother turns toward the next station and Father drops his eyes to the counter, acknowledging the end of their silent conversation. His body settles against the back of his stool, and his hands fall into his lap.
I curl my shoulders forward and place my chin in my hands. As I watch my women continue their dance, which now includes the occasional swipe of a hand across the cheek, my foot begins to tap, tap, tap against the leg of my stool.