Ernesto understood our tradition, but D’Angelo’s has a new manager. My mom’s favorite meal in the entire world was a bowl of D’Angelo’s spaghetti with meat sauce and extra potent garlic bread. Ernesto always had our to-go order ready with all the little extras, because he knew where we were going.
He retired last year, though. And Brian, who is rather corporate, doesn’t understand why we need so many napkins. Rather than explain we like to eat dinner and toast my mom at her grave to celebrate Mother’s Day, my dad simply says we’re going on a picnic. Brian thinks it’s sweet. He doesn’t even seem aware that it’s Mother’s Day.
“I sure hope Brian’s mom doesn’t expect a card or a phone call today,” I mutter under my breath to my dad as Brian heads to the back of the restaurant to fill a to-go carton with extra parmesan.
I slide into the passenger seat of my dad’s truck with the hot tin of pasta resting on my lap. It smells delicious, and the garlic scent will soon permeate every inch of the cab, I’m certain.
“We’re coming, Meg,” my dad says, shifting into reverse and backing onto the street from my mom’s favorite roadside restaurant.
We’re at Seven Oaks in less than twenty minutes. My dad winds through the cemetery to the northern section where my mom rests, passing a few parked cars along the way. It’s a popular day to visit this place. I’ve always felt a kinship with the shared melancholy I recognize in the faint smiles reflected back at me. I communicate with strangers through nods and soft eyes. We never speak out loud to one another. We just know.
My dad pulls the plaid blanket from the back of his truck, then he and I hike up the grassy hill to the shade from the oldest Oak on the property. I picked her resting place. She didn’t have any plans, and my parents never discussed their wishes should they pass. Some people might say that was irresponsible, but they were young. My mom had just turned forty. She would be fifty-three if she were here today, and she would have loved to tease my father for hitting fifty-five first. She always said she couldn’t wait for him to make them eligible for the luxury senior community on the outskirts of town. She fancied joining the golf club.
With the blanket spread out next to the small concrete tombstone that reads MOTHER, WIFE, LOVE, my dad and I take our seats and open the food containers for our feast.
“I bet you can smell us up here, Meg,” my dad says as he unravels the tinfoil from the garlic toast.
“Wow,” I say, wafting my hand at it. “But also, gimme.”
I stretch out an open palm and curl my fingers a few times until my dad plops a piece of bread in my hand. I bite into the crunchy toast, and the bitter saltiness makes my tastebuds water instantly.
“God, that’s good. And toxic,” I laugh, cupping my mouth to diffuse the instant bad breath.
“Did I ever tell you about the first time I took your mom to D’Angelo’s? Before we were married?” My dad scoops half thepasta into the lid and hands it to me, along with a fork-spoon-napkin packet and the container of cheese.
“A little. It was half the size it is now, right? And the menu consisted of four things; I remember you telling me.” I sprinkle parmesan on my pasta, then hand the container to my dad.
“Yep, and two of those things were the bread and spaghetti. Your mom was afraid I was going to try to kiss her on the first date, so she asked Ernesto to make her toast extra garlicky,” my dad recalls, a grin on his face as he takes a bite of his piece of toast. He pulls out one of our water bottles from his mini cooler and twists off the cap, taking a big gulp and swishing it around his mouth.
“I didn’t know that,” I say, a tender smile settling on my lips. I imagine my mom being nervous on a date with my dad. He was always bold and confident. She was the quiet type, soft and introverted.
“Did it work?” I quirk a brow.
My dad chuckles, his gaze focused on the end of his fork as he swirls a bite of spaghetti onto it.
“Colby, your mother could have eaten worms, and I would have wanted to kiss her. But I could tell she was nervous, so when I dropped her off at your grandparents’ house, I simply kissed her cheek and bid her goodnight.” My dad pops his spoonful of pasta in his mouth and grins as he chews with tight lips and stares at me.
“I feel like you’re not telling me everything,” I say, a brow lifted in suspicion.
My dad’s head waggles as he goes in for another bite.
“I may have come back to her window a minute after midnight and asked for a kiss. I told her a new day meant a second date. And well . . .”
“Let me guess, she gave in to your charms?” My mother was smitten with my dad, even after years of marriage.
“Ha! Not even close,” my dad says with a hard laugh. “She tossed a cup of water at me and told me to get off of Grandpa’s lawn before he caught me out there.”
I laugh at the visual he paints, and I’m sure it’s accurate. My grandparents love my father, but I know for a fact my mom was always a daddy’s girl. Just like I am.
“You must have done something to change her mind eventually,” I say, continuing to slurp up noodles while my dad stares off with a dreamy look on his face.
“Five dates later, she let me kiss her. And I kissed her every damn day after. Even when the two of us were finishing up college, I drove to her school to see her after baseball practices or games. And when I traveled with the team, she drove out to see me play. She was my other half. And I was hers.
His gaze drifts to the headstone, and I set my pasta down and sink into the warmth of my mom’s memory. I miss her. But more than that, I miss seeing my parents together, simply being them. They were magical.
The soft rumble of a car engine pulls my attention to my right, and when a white sedan slows to a stop behind my dad’s truck, I sit up a bit taller to get a good look at the new arrival. The yellow flowers nearly cover his face, but the curled ends of Jayden’s hair that flare out to the sides make him instantly recognizable. My heart beats wildly, and my body rushes with a suffocating coat of warmth. I struggle to fill my lungs as I scramble to my feet, dusting crumbs from my hands and brushing them away from the front of my Mavericks’ T-shirt.
“Jayden’s here,” I say, alerting my dad.
