Ritual Adjustment

A note to readers: I cried when I wrote this. I cried again when I edited it. It’s fiction, but it’s also very near reality, which made it both easy and challenging to write. However, it’s one of my favorite pieces. A glimpse into the pain of changing traditions, not because you want them to, but because life goes on. It is also about loss. If you recently experienced loss and/or don’t want to or feel comfortable reading about it, please skip this post. <3

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RITUAL ADJUSTMENT

You wake up in a bed that’s not yours. The room was yours, once, in a time that feels like a lifetime ago. Before you were 21 and eager to leave the safety and love of your parents’ house. But this bed was never yours. Your parents bought it when you moved out. It's a couch that pulls out into a bed. A flat bed you must fill with air before sleep. It creaks and groans as you sit up. The room is familiar in a way that makes you uncomfortable—the life of a young, hopeful youth with silly notions about the world. You don’t linger here long anymore. There are no sounds coming from the living room. You wish there were. Once, long ago in that other time, your parents would be sitting on the couch watching the parade. Your sister too, in her cat pajamas, that noisy cockatiel on her shoulder. Now she is in another state, and your parents are downstairs preparing for the day. You walk past the blank black box that used to flash bright reds and greens as the trumpeters in the parade went by. The men with the briefcases were your father’s favorite. Your mother liked it all.

Downstairs are noises of your parents cooking. Clang, clang, clang goes the old pots and pans. Pots and pans that used to be your grandmothers. You’d buy her them for Christmas. What else do you get a grandparent? You walk down the stairs you used to run up on all fours as a child. You remember the first time you ran up these stairs after moving in here. The priest said your grandfather loved the sound of you and your sister running up these stairs. These stairs bring you sadness. 

You see your parents around the corner. They are grey and wrinkled now. They look like grandparents to you. The kitchen unmistakably smells like Thanksgiving. It’s a sweet and acidic smell, like peppers in the sun. The phone on the wall rings. You laugh at the silly old landline. Your mother hands you a spoon and points to the sauce. You stir, stir, stir as she walks away. It’s your aunt on the phone. You can hear her voice as clear as if she was in the room. You talk that loud, too. Your boyfriend always tells you you’re yelling. You look down at your hand, stirring the sauce round and round. There are more veins there than there used to be. They look sort of like your grandmother’s hands. This makes you smile. You can picture her here, stirring away, pulling the lasagna noodles out of the bubbling water on the second burner. She would salt and butter one for you before it touched the sauce. Sweet and acidic sauce you used to pucker your face at. You bring the spoon to your lips for a taste. You still hate it. This brings you joy.

Your mother takes the spoon back and puts it down. You don’t know why you stirred the whole time. She tells you your aunt is running late. This surprises no one. You have six aunts, but you know which one she means, anyway. Your dad opens a can of olives behind you. The sound of metal against metal is unpleasant, but your mouth waters. He pours the olives into a dish and the leftover juice into two small glasses. You take the second glass and cheers. The black juice is salt and iron like fresh blood. You wish your grandpa were here to cheers, too. You wish you didn’t move out before they were gone. You walk away. Crying is weak and your parents don’t cry, so you don’t cry, either. Except you cry all the time. In the bathroom with the door closed and locked and your head buried in your grandmother’s hand towel. You wish the parade were on to drown out the sound.