Happy Holidays

by Deborah Bento

Aromas of mulled spices filled the air as I covered the table with a crisply ironed Christmas red tablecloth. I silently counted the place settings and couldn’t decide if this year there would be seven dining like there should be or if only six of us would eat the prime rib dinner. I optimistically counted out seven quilted, wreath-patterned placemats and moved clockwise around the large oval table, topping them with dinner plates while my sister folded the matching linen napkins. As she placed the napkins to the left of each plate, I followed with my gram’s wedding silverware and stealthily straightened any napkins that were askew before my mom came to inspect the table. 

As we set the scene how my mom wanted, the clanking of dishes became louder every time my dad walked into the kitchen. I didn’t know if it was to cover their back and forth barbs or if it was my mom communicating her dissatisfaction with her life. A cast iron pan slammed on the stove top with a deafening clammer. I dropped the remaining silverware from the red velvet lined box and immediately froze in fear, waiting for an exclamation from the kitchen. I couldn’t decide which was worse, setting the table with the utensils I dropped or stepping into my mother’s domain while she cooked and clanked. Today was really about appearances so I blew on the tainted silverware, rubbed it on my purple plaid sweater, and completed the backdrop for this year’s happy holiday dinner. 

The table was perfect; ruby red water goblets with clear stems and wine glasses for our sparkling juice were lined up with precision. An abnormal silence enveloped our home as the final props were set. My mom placed the beautifully caramelized prime rib roast in the center. I carried in a huge bowl of creamy mashed potatoes while my older brother poured water and everyone sat down— except my dad. As the back door slammed, my mom sipped her wine and smiled her Merry Christmas smile. I knew I should have set the table for six.