Jessica Fall, OWP 1998

 

Balancing the chicken divan casserole a friend had prepared for our family, I walked up my Aunt Valerie's dirt driveway with my parents and two sisters. The crisp, cold air was still and silent except for an occasional bird chirping and the sound of the wind as it rustled through the forest thick with pine and madrone trees. The stillness was shattered as our feet clattered onto the wooden deck outside my Aunt's kitchen door.

One of my Aunt's solemn faced friends opened the door exposing a kitchen filled with bright red pictures hanging on the wall, a red napkin holder on the oak table, and brightly colored magnets hanging on the refrigerator door. Despite the cheery kitchen, a feeling of sadness hung in the air.

My Dad, in control as usual, cleared his throat as he looked at the chicken divan and said, "Well, I guess I had better put the casserole into the oven." He then began absentmindedly preparing the dinner and cleaning up the dishes left by the numerous friends and family that had filtered in and out during the last two days to pay their respects. His face was drawn tight as he questioned the death of his nephew.

My Mom, sisters and I proceeded into the living room where my Aunt and her husband were seated on the mauve couch surrounded by both friends and family. Pain was etched in my Aunt Valerie's face as she wondered how her sixteen year old son, Jesse, could have been killed in a car accident two days before on his way to a friend's house. The questions in her eyes were asking, why. Why was he taken from her? Why was there an opossum in the road when Jesse came barreling around the corner? Why did Jesse have to swerve?

My Grandmother sat in a chair by the kitchen table and looked out the window at the madrone trees surrounding my Aunt's house. Tears dripped slowly down her pale cheeks as she dealt with the shock of losing her grandson. As I leaned over and hugged my Grandmother, I could feel the hot tears pouring down my cheeks as memories of Jesse flooded into my mind.

I walked into the bathroom to compose myself and to get some Kleenex. I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked at my face in the mirror. What had happened to the happy senior who had visited her future college only the day before? Instead of the smiling face and blue-green eyes which usually looked back at me from the mirror, I was greeted by a tense face with puffy bloodshot eyes that were swollen from spending 24 hours crying. My normally curly brown hair had broken free from the gold clip which usually held it in place and was frizzing in every direction. I wiped my eyes and tried to restrain my hair before rejoining my family in the kitchen.

All of a sudden the smoke alarm went off. The acrid smell of smoke began filling the air as it poured out of the oven. My Dad quickly grabbed a cold, wet dish towel, opened the oven door, and began beating out the hot pad which had caught on fire. In his grief, my stepfather, who was normally always in control, had mistakenly left the hot pad in the oven when he put the casserole in to cook.

A laugh was heard from my sister across the kitchen as she thought of my father leaving the hot pad in the oven. My other sister and I quickly joined her. Soon the laughter of my Grandma, my Mom, and my Dad echoed throughout the kitchen. The built up tension and sadness from the previous two days dissipated as we all began to change our perspective on the situation. We realized Jesse was in a better place than he was here on earth--a place filled with joy and celebration instead of suffering.

As the laughter subsided, my Dad dished up our "smoked chicken divan" on the plates my Mom had placed on the table. I took my first bite of the casserole expecting it to taste like the chicken divan my Mom always made, but it did not because the casserole had a distinct smoky flavor that overpowered the taste of the chicken and the mild sauce. As I slowly chewed my bite, I looked around at the rest of my family. Their laughter and puzzled looks on their faces told me that they too noticed the additional smoky flavoring.

Before anyone could say a word, my Aunt, curious about the source of the smoke and laughter, joined us in the kitchen. We were mortified! My Aunt was up going through Jesse's room with one of his friends, and there we were laughing! All of a sudden, our laughter seemed irreverent and disrespectful. After we told her the story of Dad's absentmindedness and assured her that the house was not on fire, Aunt Valerie began to laugh as she too discovered the humor in the situation. Through her tears and laughter, my Aunt asked, "Oh, where did you get the clean plates?"

"From the dishwasher," my Mom replied.

"But the dishwasher was dirty; we hadn't run it yet." Aunt Valerie said.

Laughter again filled the room as we all realized we had eaten our "smoked chicken divan" on dirty plates. With tears in my eyes and laughter ringing in my ears, I realized how wonderful it was to have family I could laugh and cry with. Despite the unfortunate circumstances that had brought us together, I was glad our family had grown closer because of the accident.