by Donna Gagnon
The teasing that goes on is almost unbearable. He knows I love to cook. Yet, he insists on distracting me during the process. I’m trying to multi-task, making sure the sprouts are cooked at exactly the same moment as the roast potatoes are ready to come out of the oven.
I tuck my hands into oven mitts, wipe my flushed face with the back of one of them, lean over to open the door and he’s blowing in my ear. It’s a wonder how I manage to get meals on the table for everyone, ya know.
Washing up takes hours. The grandkids park themselves in front of the television while we’re clearing the table and he joins me in the kitchen as I’m gauging the heat level of the water out of the tap.
“It’s hot in here, hon,” he says as he plonks another load of dirty dishes on the counter.
He presses himself up against me as I’m standing in front of the sink …
There’s soapy water on the floor now.
“Close the door!”
I turn off the taps. He’s already closed the door.
It’s on nights like this that I don’t care that we’re seniors. If those kids go home and tell their parents they heard noises in Gran and Grandpa’s kitchen, we’ll just blame the ghosts in this old house. If their parents don’t have ghosts like ours, too bad.