paper rings (l.h.)

21

The four of us spent the night sat around my Grandma's living room, Luke and I carefully helped her to sit on her couch in front of the TV. I had covered her legs with the quilt she had made decades ago, and the squares she had so carefully sewn together were hanging on by mere threads. My Mom had made a comment about it, pointing out how the bright reds and indigos had faded into pastel pinks and blues. "I'd fix it, but my fingers aren't as steady as they used to be."

Luke and I sat opposite my Mom and Grandma. I sat with Luke's arm wrapped around me, pulled close to his body. It was warm against mine. "I'm sorry to hear about your Dad," my Grandma clears her throat, Luke had brought him up earlier, but quickly changed the subject. I feel his body tense as his Father is brought up once again. "He was a good man."

"He was," he nods, clearing his throat as he tries to blink away the tears that come with the memory of him. He looks at the floor to keep anyone from noticing , but I did. "He was a hard-ass sometimes. But he was good."

We all sit there in silence, Luke's mind is probably full of unanswered questions about my Father, and why I haven't brought him up yet. I let him think, and I feel my Mom's eyes glance up towards me. The question I am afraid he will ask hasn't come, at least not yet. And for now, my Mom is not letting it happen. "So you're a musician?" She asks, crossing her legs and taking a soft sip of her black coffee.

"I am," he nods, looking down and watching me as I smooth out my skirt. I felt his eyes on me before I even turned my head, my eyes catching his as soon as I turned back. "Or I was. I don't really perform anymore."

"You're on a break," I correct him, gently nudging him in the side as he looks towards the red Persian carpet beneath our feet. "You shouldn't have to choose between your mental health and your job, Luke."

"Do you think you'll ever go back?" My Mom asks, her eyes glued to the couple in front of her. "To LA?"

"Yeah. O-one day," he clears his throat, his body becoming clammy and hot all of a sudden. He shifts in his seat, and it seemed like he was uncomfortable by that question. As if he hadn't made up his mind yet. "I'm not done here yet."

"What are you waiting for?" My Grandma butts in. I lower my head hoping to find a way to change the subject. "You're not getting any younger."

We all sat and thought about what she said, and I played with the rings I had put over my fingers. I wait for Luke to answer, which he doesn't. Something in me wishes he would, though, so that some of my lingering questions might be answered.

He never answered, and I thought about what Grandma meant, and how my Mom glanced over to her while she watched the now muted TV. The football game caught my attention despite my lack of knowledge of the sport. Until I felt his warm hand take mine from where they lay folded over my lap.

The night ended not too long after that, Grandma kicking us out by saying we've exhausted us with our great conversation (we had been staring at the silent TV for half an hour by then) and my Mom excusing herself and scurrying away to her bedroom. That left Luke and I to keep ourselves entertained, as the two of us found ourselves locked away in my bedroom.

I clicked my door shut behind him, listening to my bed creak while his heavy body took it over, head first into my pile of pillows I had at the headboard of the bed. They were covered in hand-embroidered roses and ivy some ancestor of mine had created. It didn't seem like the pillowcase was used by anyone other than me, and I wondered if these were the same sheets my Mom grew up snuggled up underneath.