Underwater Kitchen

My lungs were full of the water we floated in, but my grandmother twirled through it with grace and a tranquil smile on her lips. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t, not because of the sea that filled up our kitchen, but for the way she moved through it, unperturbed, busy preparing our supper. My grandfather coughed out seawater and did his crossword puzzle at the kitchen table. The stove was ablaze, the soup bubbled, none of us could breathe, and my grandmother stirred the soup. She set the table and the dishes floated away, so she caught them and set them down once again. She buttered the bread and I couldn’t tell if I was crying and she struck a match and lit a candle and I so drifted over to sit with my grandfather. We held hands to pray and so that we wouldn’t float apart; the three of us, at our underwater table. My vision was blurred and I was inhaling seawater and my heart calmed as we sat together. My grandfather blew bubbles like smoke rings and my hair floated up above me and my grandmother laughed at us both. We blinked the saltwater from our eyes and smiled as we complimented my grandmother’s soup, and here we ate in our underwater kitchen.