Lunch

The hiss of a pressured spring brings in the sound of waves slapping at a sea wall and children screaming gleefully, adults laughing, followed by the slam of a metal storm door- cutting off all outside noise.

“You better not be dripping!” a tone of warning barks from the kitchen just 15 feet from the patio door. Small feet tap anxiously on a worn welcome mat, water droplets sprinkle off during the frantic dance.

“Mawmaw, I hafta poo..” the young girl clutches her towel tighter around her shoulders to keep the cool air from touching her sun-kissed skin as she runs past her grandmother and aunt to a small powder room in the back corner of the house. Little wet footprints are left behind and the aunt was barely able to get the words ‘Careful not to slip.’ before the bathroom door clicked shut. The women laughed with each other and turned back to their important work.

Several slices of bread were laid before them on a long sheet of connected paper towels, Mawmaw had already begun distributing peanut butter on the top row and the jelly sat waiting on the butcher table placed in the middle of the small kitchen space. Aunt Julie went over to her blender full of margarita mix and ice and stared pulsing it again.