Frank J. Tassone II
We cleared gravy-stained plates and tainted wine glasses. The remains of the turkey could feed the five of us for days.
It was the first year we didn't host. Mom and Dad invited us downstairs instead. We had arranged to eat dinner with them and then travel to my Sister-in-law's for dessert. She hosted dinner for the rest of my wife's family in our place.
As we said goodbye, my father's sadness showed in his resigned eyes. I carried his face with me long after we left.
"Did we leave too early?" I asked. We had already passed the Spring Valley toll on the thruway.
She glared at me. Her silence was answer enough.
I felt only my clenched hands on the wheel as a forgotten song played on a forgotten station.
A murder of crows