Photo
The stew sputtered on the stove.
Sarah’s mother hummed as she stirred it.
The house smelled like home.
Or what home used to smell like.
—
Sarah tapped the kitchen table.
Her skin itched.
The cigarettes in her pocket felt heavy.
“Soon?” Sarah asked.
“Good food takes time,” her mother said.
—
Sarah wandered into the living room.
The old photos stood in the cabinet.
Her first bike.
Plastic beads rattling in the spokes.
Uncle Tom gave her those beads.
Her mother hated them.
—
Graduation.
Lavender flowers in her hands.
Only Uncle Tom remembered lavender was her favourite.
—
Wedding photo.
Her kissing her now ex-husband.
A single strand of lavender tucked behind her ear.
She smiled despite herself.
—
“Table,” her mother called.
Sarah stopped at the newest photo.
Last year.
The whole family gathered for her father’s birthday.
Ninety-three.
Her smile faded.
The frame sat crooked.
Something felt wrong.
Uncle Tom should have been there.
—
Dinner arrived.
Stew. Bread. Silence.
They ate.
“Mom,” Sarah said.
Stopped.
Swallowed first.
“Do you remember Dad’s birthday last year?”
Her mother nodded slowly.
“Before he passed.”
Silence again.
A spoon clinked against porcelain.
“Wasn’t Uncle Tom there too?”
Her mother stood. Took the plates to the sink.
“What Uncle Tom?” she asked.
The wine bottle scraped against the counter as she poured.
“Your brother.”
Sarah frowned.
“He flew in for Dad’s birthday.”
Her mother looked at her strangely.
“But he isn’t in the photo,” Sarah said.
Her mother smiled.
Small. Careful.
“You and your jokes.”
She opened the cookie jar.
“Sweetheart,” she said softly. “I’m an only child.”
—
The spoke beads.
The lavender.
The wedding flower.
The cigarettes burned against Sarah’s leg.
-ck