Gathering

Depression era mentality keeps my parents’ cupboards full. When I asked my mother why she had a half dozen, large boxes of corn flakes, my father’s favorite, she replied, "they were on sale".  Last night we raided the walk in freezer and found: two turkeys, chicken breasts, pork chops, a London broil, sausage, chicken stock, cauliflower soup, cabbage soup, black bean soup, filberts, almonds, walnuts, chocolate chips, pie crust, ice cream, pumpkin bread, and Christmas cookies.  The tin of cookies was immediately retrieved and devoured. 

My parents have never lacked friends, and many of the adults I grew up with in the suburbs of NJ have all migrated 30 miles south to various adult communities.  They have carpooled to see my parents, recovering side by side in room 475.  A bittersweet way to connect with the women, my father is the last of the men, who have left a lasting impression on my childhood.  I remember BBQs, road trips, bar mitzvahs, shopping sprees to discount designer stores and the rings that still adorn their fingers.  There's always a silver lining.

 After a 24 hour, coma-like sleep my father was alert and eager to see his many visitors.  He was joking and teasing, very much himself, and said to me at the end of they day, "I never knew being in the hospital could be so much fun".  Once my mother's drugs wore off she was less than enthusiastic about her condition.  Still nauseous and uncomfortable, she didn't want to sip her liquids or engage in too much conversation.

At night, we return home, leaving them together in matching hospital gowns, and assemble eclectic meals cobbled together from the contents of their freezer and shelves.