absence

In the kitchen, she fumbles with the whiskey—the bottle seeming too weighty for her frail arms, the cap slipping between shaking fingers. She pours the liquid straight into the glass without measuring it, either too tired to follow his decades-old procedure or too lonely without him to care.

How many times in my life did I hear her call to him out the window as she turned on the tv in the evening? She would have left the beginnings of dinner to simmer on the stove while she watched the news. “Donald, it’s time!” was always her first refrain, heralding him into the corner of the kitchen between the sink and the refrigerator, adeptly located beside the liquor cabinet, the glassware, and the icebox. Thirty minutes later would come her second commentary—the same every night I’ve ever spent here; the same, I’m sure, every night for 69.5 years: “Donald, are you going to fix that?”—her voice tinged with expectation but not judgment. Slowly he always plodded back into the kitchen, his exercise socks and tennis shoes padding his footsteps across the wood floor. Soon enough I’d hear the rattle of ice against glass walls as he carried each of their second drinks back into the living room. Without averting her eyes from the television screen, she’d take her glass gently from his hand, dip her thin upper lip into it, and sip in the alcohol along with that day’s news.  

*

After dinner, she thanks me as I clear the plates from the table. As I reach the dishwasher, I look instinctively over my shoulder for him, accustomed to sending him back to his seat because when I’m here, I like to relieve them both of some of their usual duties.

I fill the dishwasher in silence, Grandma waiting quietly at the table. Even though he is not here, I can hear his voice telling a story, animated by his jovial laughter and dramatic or mischievous tone; or I can clearly see him waiting quietly with his hands crossed before him in his seat at the head of the table. In the spot, I realize now, where I inadvertently set her place tonight, putting myself in her chair. Why did I do that? To make sure both of their seats were still filled?

*

He was never allowed in the kitchen other than for those two tasks. But they were daily tasks, executed repeatedly and identically for seven decades. He was never allowed to spend much time in the kitchen, yet it is here where I find his absence to be inescapably present.