Sunday Dinner

In the kitchen, my mother was commander, directing the cooks to move like a troop. With the salt and pepper shakers in one hand, the other wielded the ladle for the soup. Out on the porch, my father was the general, a wave of his hand would silence the crowd. He’d put an end to any bickering, that might start to get a little too loud. Sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins, gathered to fill the old house to the brim. Throw in a few pets and some people I didn’t know, had it just about to flow over the rim. No matter your political belief or religion, every person was treated as family. With enough good food for half the town, no one left the table feeling hungry. But now those chairs at the table are empty, and the parlor longs for those forgotten songs. Sunday dinners, like most other traditions, slowly faded, and now sadly, are gone.