The One With The Potluck.

Dear Lover,

Tuesday night is Family Dinner night.  

Me.  Brother.  The Sisters.

And any other scraggler we can scoop up and call our own.

We switch houses.

One Tuesday here, the next there.

Sometimes it's an unplanned potluck.

Sometimes there's a theme.

Sometimes we forget to bring that 1/3 cup of sugar and corkscrew we were asked to bring.

Nonetheless, it's always a time of fellowship for us.

Food prepared by our own hands.
Music playing.
Three or four different conversations going on at once.

As we trip over each other in the kitchen.

Stepping on the paws of our dogs, with their noses up in the air, reminding us that there is bread in the oven.

But finally, we settle at the table.

Hold hands and say grace.

Then gobble and giggle and wind down from the different lives we lead.

Wind down into a casual air of comfort.

That is.

Until one of the dogs steal a chunk of our buttered bread.
Or Brother tells us to stop giggling.

And then we settle on the porch.
Sipping coffee and pulling off pieces of dessert from a shared plate.
Dozing off.
Talking of such things.
Things that make the world spin round.
Such heavy and silly things.
Conversations entirely ours.
 
Love,
Me.