The
Punchbowl
This
is a short story I wrote years ago and updated. I’ve sent it out to a few
magazines. We’ll see what happens.
Part
One
“Beep!
Coming through,” Regina warned loudly. This punchbowl pulled on her shoulders
more each year. She clutched its popped-out grape clusters and gingerly
centered the sloshing bowl amidst stacks of paper cups. She owned an exquisite
crystal bowl that drew in light and released it in prismatic colors. Regina
thought the humble, almost warty look of this one better suited to a family
gathering.
She
discreetly blotted her damp forehead. The buffet table with its tempting
display of dark-colored, crisp vegetables and fruits and the softer textures of
meats and breads pleased her. “Mountains of food and fountains of drink,” she
and the girls caroled to one another in the days of preparation prior to this
one day of constant eating, drinking, and smiling over small talk. Regina’s
cheeks hurt already.
The
Kingston family reunion—she and her husband, Trace, had inherited it after the
death of his father, Tracey Leonard Kingston III. Trace, now the patriarch of
the multi-branched throng of relatives, never used the y.
Regina
greeted new arrivals, pointed out the den designated as the cloakroom, and
suggested a look at the terraced garden beyond the French doors where mums
still bloomed in the same colors as the leaves falling around them. From a
plush blue-gray armchair, a frail hand settled on Regina’s forearm. The pungent
aroma of professionally perfected white curls wafted up from one of the aunts.
Part
Two on Monday.
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