“Gotta lock it in, Brother. As the wise man from Fiddler on the Roof would say: tradition.” Why did someone decide to make him Tevye in his eighth-grade drama production? We never hear the end of it.
Drew lets out a deep laugh. “They skipped a step on that one.”
When somebody clears their throat, I’m saved. All of our attention is given to the head of the table where my mom proudly stands, holding up the Seder book.
“Show of hands if we do the hour version with songs?”
The table stays quiet and not a single hand raised.
“And no songs, we use an app, and time this to a new record of forty minutes?”
Everybody raises their hand.
“Thought so.” She smiles then sits down.
“One year when my great-grandmother was alive, it went on for four hours,” Gracie whispers to me.
I lean into her, setting my arm on the back of her chair, and get a waft of her flowery shampoo. “Was a roasted lamb sacrificed for Easter dinner?”
Both of our eyes zip to the serving plate byHudson. I’m sure he was as overzealous with his cooking as his scavenger-hunt planning.
“We were lucky that year that Easter fell on an earlier date in the month,” she explains. But then her eyes fixate on the piece of meat. “It’s a little insensitive. It’s baby lamb season. That thing on a plate was probably a parent. I can’t think about it.” Gracie sounds a tad somber, and it isn’t in fun jest.
I also know where this is going.
Surveying the room, I see that everyone is still in their own conversations at the table before we begin. I have a moment.
I offer my hand as I stand. “Come on, let’s get some air.”
She nods in agreement while she stands.
When we walk down the hallways past the laundry room to the side door, she yanks me out, now eager for fresh air on a cloudy day. We nearly tumble into the side yard, but she releases my arm, and I step back, almost tripping on the croquet set that someone forgot to put away.
“I hate this game.” I kick a wire tunnel.
“It involves a stick. Shouldn’t it be like hockey on grass or something?
I wiggle a finger side to side. “No. This is the game for old people who move to Florida when they retire.”
She rolls her eyes before a lightness hangs in the air. Remembering why I suggested we get some air, I step forward and ruefully smile as my finger hooks under her chin to drag her sight back to me.
“The lamb is really getting to you, huh?”
She laughs and cries at the same time. “So silly, I know. It’s just a fluffy baby animal, and when I walked through the baby store, every toy and blanket had a little lamb on it. Hormones are getting to me.”
My hand drops when she wraps her arms around my neck. “We’re just getting closer to welcoming her. There’s a lot going on. I don’t think it’s the lamb that is bothering you at all.” I affectionately hold her eyes.
“No. It’s not.” Her voice softens. “It’s becoming even more real that in a few months we’re going to be parents.”
“I think a lot more is becoming real.” I mean us. Being with her drowns my soul because she’s everything.
I stroke her cheek with the back of my knuckles, and the way our eyes lock feels like a silent agreement of the words we don’t say aloud. There is a glint in her eyes, and the corner of her mouth tugs. “You’re right,” she rasps.
“I also think you miss me a little?” I’m teasing her, but I’m very much serious, too.
It is the faintest of nods, but I see it. “It’s great the Spinners made it to the playoffs and all, mostly due to your leadership. It’s just… it’s hard. We knew it would be this way, barely a moment to breathe and traveling more until you qualify for the next round.”
I smirk to myself and feel a little cocky because I’m positive that we will. But hockey doesn’t matter right now. “Trust me, every moment I can, I think of you.”
