Classic Friday Morning

by Sonia Betesh

In memory of Joe Betesh a"h

the man:

my grandfather, dressed in a white polo shirt, face dancing with a smile. 

the time:

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 place:

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. 

the meal:

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. 

the sound:

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. 

the smell: 

a heavenly combination of oil, cinnamon, and allspice in preparation for Friday night dinner. 

the date: 

sixteen years ago, although it still feels like last Friday night that he made the entire table erupt in laughter.