In the land of sunsets, I sit with my father and my grandmother drinking iced tea out of very tall glasses from a pitcher that we never can manage to finish.
They both think I am a little strange for drinking my tea unsweetened, never mind that neither of them put sugar in their tea, either, so it saves us from making two pitchers anyway. They don't even use the same artificial sweetener. My father likes the kind that comes in the pink packets, and my grandmother prefers the kind in the blue. Never mind that they do not actually have to skip the sugar anymore, habits are habits. I am still the odd duck, but some things never change.
The glass table we sit at in white wicker chairs is cool to the touch. It somehow matches the drinking glasses, although not the pitcher. The pitcher is one I have often seen in my father's mother's kitchen, filled with iced tea. Whoever made the tea brewed it perfectly - plenty of flavor, and not even slightly bitter. It is refreshing.
My grandmother, not his mother, waits for me with my father. She is friendly and cheerful with him, like she is with everybody - she could make friends with a rabid dog, as long as he agreed not to bite her or much drool on her pants. My father, not her son, is relaxed and amicable with her, like he is with everybody. People tend to like my dad - he makes friends easily and often. You have to be a real son of a bitch for him not to like you.
They are not the only ones there, but they get first crack. I occasionally see others, and those that I know nod to me from time to time, acknowledging without interrupting. One friend winks at me, to remind me that he is as patient as I am not. His smirk is mocking encouragement and gentle admonishment, all at once. I briefly consider excusing myself to sock him in the gut before deciding not to prove his point. We will have plenty of time to discuss his facial expressions later.
My grandmother asks me if I am okay. I give her an honest answer, the only one I have, that I am not. My father continues by assuring me that I will be, after all, that is my specialty. He pronounces the word with a British accent, adding an extra syllable. I do not know why.
I call it the land of sunsets because it is. When I arrived, the sun was sinking below the horizon. Not the remote and dessicated horizon from my desert, or the green, hilly horizon from my forest, but something in between. I pour myself a glass and sink back into my chair, watching the last rays of the sunset fade while I intently dig my toes into the grass.
They have a few questions, but I am not sure I have the answers. I'm not even sure that I understand. They tell me that it is okay if I don't understand, the necessary thing is to try. And I do.
I love the grass here, simply because it is green and soft and fragrant and I am not allergic to it. My father asks me a question, and I look up to answer him, shielding my eyes from the sun setting behind him. The sun is not particularly bright, but habits are habits. I pause to take another drink of tea. I never sip it.
I comprehend more than they expect, but less than they hoped. I take it as a happy medium. I am, after all, only human. I watch another sun set behind my grandmother, relaxing into her voice. I sense that my time to sit with my father and grandmother is drawing to a close.
I'd like to pull each of them into a hug that could crack a rib, but that sort of thing is not done here. The body is vulgar. Instead, I sit quietly and fuss with the hem of my sundress. Grand displays are the sort of thing that ensures one will not be invited back. I compromise and reach across the table to squeeze my grandmother's hand, as hard as I can. She grimaces at my freshly-painted, dark blue nails, and then smiles, anyway. Habits are habits.
It is time to leave. I stand, unsure of what happens next. My father stands and surprises me with a quick embrace. We were never very good at affection after I grew up. It is as comforting as it is unexpected.
I miss them.
