House of Cards

Sitting at the kitchen table, soft white hair in curlers. Going nowhere but desirous of looking your best anyway. Grandma, a woman of dignity no matter what. Always ready to answer with an exuberant Hell no! or Hell yeah! Grandparents say whatever they please. I sit with Grandma to my right, my brother to the left, mother across the table, my card partner. Grandpa is with us no more. The cards flash to the spot directly in front of us each a football thrown across the field of the table. My brother is a lightning-fast dealer. The persistent pop of popcorn and hum of the microwave a constant scene each Sunday afternoon and now just a cherished memory.