A Normal Evening

Sitting around the bridge table I inherited from Nana, playing cards: Mom, Dad, me and Bruno. We're cracking jokes and being silly, high on the adrenaline of competition, not to mention sugar from the ice-cream. Mom and I dip our spoons directly into the chocolate sauce. Mom has it all over her teeth and we all poke fun at her sloppy mouth.

I have a whisper of guilt, but just a whisper: we haven't mentioned the boys tonight. And I decide it's alright. Looking at my father's smiling face (he's losing, and he's not even being grouchy about it), looking at my husband's relaxed brow, my Mom's chocolatey smile, I decide it's alright to be normal for once. To have an evening where our grief isn't center stage, the main event. Where eggshells are abandoned, crunched on, even. My father tells a story and I start to laugh, really laugh, and I could almost cry with how nice it feels to catch a glimpse of our New Normal.