In the parlor is a picture, probably thirty-eight or thirty-nine years old. Three women, matriarchs, gather about a sitting room comfy chair. In the lap of the eldest woman, sits a boy, six months to a year old, maybe. He has eyes that are very large that he'll one day be harassed for, and blond hair, which will be brown by the time he turns eight, eventually becoming dysfunctional calico, with shades of Grey. The women, great grandmother, grandmother, and mother are all gone now. Years have passed since any of them have drawn breath. The boy is the last man standing. More times than he'd like to admit, he finds this disturbing.
I looked up a the picture, solemnly raising my tea mug in a unspoken toast. Then I turned my attention to my phone, to send a message to my sister. At six years younger than me, she is the matriarch of the family now and respects need to be made, despite the fact I try not think of what day it is.
By a roll of the bones falling of days it is an anniversary for Sabina and I. We have so many it is joked we should commender a full month and have done with it. I give her a kiss and wish her a happy day before going about making breakfast.
Hummingbirds trill through the valley and the last visages of murky weather press on. On such a special day we look at hopping up over to get starts for our community garden plot. We're both excited for the adventure. Homemade pizza is on the menu for super. It could be said it's just another day, but, then again, when you live where others come to vacation, everyday is a holiday.