by Sonia Betesh
In memory of Joe Betesh a"h
my grandfather, dressed in a white polo shirt, face dancing with a smile.
nine o'clock on a Friday morning in May, when the sun peeks through the magnolia trees in the front lawn, petals littering the ground like crumbled white handkerchiefs.
the sunroom, windows expanding to cover half of the walls, the other half filled with watercolor paintings, and wind chimes made of white seashells hanging from the ceiling.
a half of a sliced grapefruit served to the man at the head of the table, cut carefully into separate sections with a curved grapefruit knife.
him turning the newspaper pages like the crunching of leaves, complimented by the bubbling of fried eggs in the kitchen, and the chirping of birds outside.
a heavenly combination of oil, cinnamon, and allspice in preparation for Friday night dinner.
sixteen years ago, although it still feels like last Friday night that he made the entire table erupt in laughter.