Matthew Trumbull: I’LL SAY GRACE • Cleaver Magazine

Creative Nonfiction by Matthew Trumbull
I’LL SAY GRACE

Lord,

We bow our heads and give thanks for this Christmas Eve dinner made by my mother.

Bless the prime rib, Lord, on this one night a year when we eat prime rib. Bless my late grandmother’s Christmas china plates, the ones from the 1940s that are stamped Made in Occupied Japan, on this one night a year when we eat off fine china. Bless this dining room, on this one night a year we eat here rather than the kitchen. Bless this blessing, on this one night a year when we ask for Your blessing before dinner.

Bless our grief on this two hundred and sixty-second night this year since my father’s death in April, the last time I was home. Bless the goodbye I was able to say with his hand in mine. Bless however much of it he heard, however much of it he felt.

Bless my mother’s annual cliché about how much cholesterol is in the prime rib: enough to kill a horse. Her annual shock at how much the prime rib cost: twenty dollars a pound! Her annual shrug: it’s only once a year. Her annual lament: you work so hard in the kitchen on a big meal like this and then you tire yourself out and have no appetite when it’s time to eat.

Bless her quietness this year. Bless the quietness at this table. Even when it was the three of us, we were never a loud family. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for this house to get much quieter, but my father’s absence doesn’t squeak the chair like he would have, if he had sat his gaunt and dying body at the head of the table just now. It doesn’t breathe through a tube like he did, short, winded gasps. It isn’t attached by that tube to an oxygen tank in the living room like he was, a tank that made a low, perpetual hum, like an old refrigerator. We barely noticed the hum until the tank was shut off by a home hospice nurse on the night he died. The official time of death she noted was 6:17 p.m., right around now. Bless the memories that are forever bound to this time of day. The nurse’s blue-gloved index and middle fingers, gently pressed against his carotid artery. Her stethoscope, against his unmoving chest.

Bless my mother’s choice to cook the normal holiday meal on this night, as though it were any other year. There are sides, Lord. Mashed potatoes. Gravy in a silver boat, on this one night a year when we use a gravy boat. Peas, Lord. Rolls in a basket. Salad, poured into a wooden bowl straight from the bag. A bottle of Wishbone ranch dressing.

Bless the tiny portions of food that my mother has put on her plate. Around 3:00 a.m., she will likely sit by herself in the kitchen with a generous plate of leftovers. I will listen to her from bed. I’m not sleeping, either.

Bless my mother’s sniffling at the table. She can no longer hold the tears back. In anticipation of this, I sat us close on either side of a corner so I could easily reach her hand.

Bless our separate griefs. My mother and I have never had an easy way with one another. She doesn’t like to stir up bad memories or talk about her feelings with me, even when our feelings match as precisely as these china settings in front of us. Over the years, we both found it easier to talk to my father. I once harbored hope that, in the wake of his death, she and I would find a deeper bond. Instead, our clasped hands are where two lonely lines of a former triangle touch. Our connecting piece is gone. Every passing day seems to stretch our paths further apart.

Bless my private conclusion years ago, Lord, that You don’t exist. It is for my mother’s sake that we offer up grace before this meal. It is for her sake that we will attend the late service at church tonight. She has always sought solace in ritual. It breaks my heart when she seeks in vain. It breaks my heart that I can’t wait for Christmas to be over this year. I wish we knew how to be each other’s company through this loss. I wish we knew how to pull apart our mutual sadness like one of these steaming rolls and share it.

In a few days, I will pack up my grief and fly back to my life in New York. My mother and her grief will stay here in Minnesota and agree on a show to watch. The voices from the television will chase each other through the empty rooms. Bless her solitary dinners in the kitchen, Lord. Bless the leftovers. Bless the paper plates. Bless the minutes in the microwave. Bless the cold hours before dawn as she sits tired and staring, waiting for the first light of a New Year.

Matthew Trumbull lives in New Jersey with his wife and two children. His flash nonfiction writing has been featured or is forthcoming in Hippocampus Magazine, Pithead Chapel, Short Reads, Slips Slips, and Spellbinder. He has been an award-winning solo performer and a mainstage storyteller at The Moth. Website: matthewtrumbull.com. Instagram: @matthewtrumbull.