Sunday at Dad's

It's Sunday. Temperatures are predicted to reach 90 degrees. The siblings, those of us in Northern California, are going to Dad's house for lunch. Where we will sit on the deck and eat something probably involving a lot of vegetables and perhaps some grilled chicken. We will drink Perrier most likely although someone might have white wine even so early in the day. And the sky will be blue and we will look out over the black bottomed swimming pool and there will be very little noise other than some birds in the trees. We will be privileged. And with any luck, grateful.

I used to think all this was normal. That my circumstances weren't unusual. I am not sure how I managed to keep that belief for so long. There are implications. What to do when comfort food means grilled asparagus with fresh herbs on a deck overlooking the long hillside? What does that mean for a family? For many years I thought we all loved each other because we were intelligent, examined people. Then I suspected that we might all love each other in part because it's easy to do so in such abundant circumstances. Families are complex. I love mine very much. Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.