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It's nearing 11:00 PM and my nephew and I raid the fridge as quietly as we can. He's one of those "growing boy" types and so he pulls back with a bowl of ice cream, milk and a can of lychee fruit all crammed up in his massive hands. We breath out heavily, high and elated from our battling on Mario Party 5 before we assemble our snacks so we won't spill everything on the crisp, shiny floor. Anthony is particularly careful about that, because he's growing into his new teenage body and he tends to not know his strengths, weaknesses and balance as well as I do. That, and, Grandma would be yell at him.
I get the silverware as he rearranges the food. I look up to see him looking all over our refrigerator in a quiet reverence before he looks at me, big lips stuck out.
"What?" I ask him. He shrugs.
"Grandma doesn't have any pictures of our family up there," he remarks. I stand beside him and I glance around the surface fleetingly before my eyes slow down and look again. He's actually right. Because I'm his aunt, I glance up and down on the left side to see if there's a picture there. He follows on the other.
"See, told you," he says and he shrugs. I smirk a little because there's a picture of David, his wife and his three kids. Actually, there's three pictures, all on the right upper hand of the fridge. There's not one of Anthony's family, but he already knows that. Typical.
"Don't feel bad," I tell him. I point to the left hand side. "My picture's next to the dead dog and cat."
He sees where I'm pointing and he grins, suddenly, wide and smug when he realizes I'm right. Soon after, he shrugs, smirks, and leaves almost in one movement. Before I turn to leave with him, I stare at my picture again. It's more than sixteen years old and it's frayed on the corners from age. I'm wearing a polka-dotted blue dress with too much lace and tight curls to match. My fat bulges at the arms, and I look like a dumpling. It's embarrassing enough that I can't look away.
Anthony calls out to me. I glance at the picture of the dead Sheltie and our dead Siamese cat who recently died back in July 2007. I glance back at the picture of my brother, David. Armando's face isn't present. The fridge is not half full, but half empty.
I look away completely and I follow my nephew back to the living room. I force my fingers to move slower as if that would make me lose even more.
My nephew conquers me easily and I don't tell him I let him win this time.
I get the silverware as he rearranges the food. I look up to see him looking all over our refrigerator in a quiet reverence before he looks at me, big lips stuck out.
"What?" I ask him. He shrugs.
"Grandma doesn't have any pictures of our family up there," he remarks. I stand beside him and I glance around the surface fleetingly before my eyes slow down and look again. He's actually right. Because I'm his aunt, I glance up and down on the left side to see if there's a picture there. He follows on the other.
"See, told you," he says and he shrugs. I smirk a little because there's a picture of David, his wife and his three kids. Actually, there's three pictures, all on the right upper hand of the fridge. There's not one of Anthony's family, but he already knows that. Typical.
"Don't feel bad," I tell him. I point to the left hand side. "My picture's next to the dead dog and cat."
He sees where I'm pointing and he grins, suddenly, wide and smug when he realizes I'm right. Soon after, he shrugs, smirks, and leaves almost in one movement. Before I turn to leave with him, I stare at my picture again. It's more than sixteen years old and it's frayed on the corners from age. I'm wearing a polka-dotted blue dress with too much lace and tight curls to match. My fat bulges at the arms, and I look like a dumpling. It's embarrassing enough that I can't look away.
Anthony calls out to me. I glance at the picture of the dead Sheltie and our dead Siamese cat who recently died back in July 2007. I glance back at the picture of my brother, David. Armando's face isn't present. The fridge is not half full, but half empty.
I look away completely and I follow my nephew back to the living room. I force my fingers to move slower as if that would make me lose even more.
My nephew conquers me easily and I don't tell him I let him win this time.