We now discuss my brothers, my young nieces—their latest test scores, accomplishments at soccer, leading roles in school musical comedies. “Though I must say I can’t believe that kids these days still want to do Oklahoma.” My parents wince at my disloyalty toward the forties that spawned me.

“What time does the news come on here? I mean national.” It’s my fallback position. But a smell intervenes. Hidden beyond the golf course vista, a single distant orange grove must remain yet “undeveloped.” We know it is still there because, this evening—through huge windows—a smell drifts across their lake. I turn my head, as toward a sound. Here comes a scent so delicate you doubt it’s genuine. —Can such an evolved sweetness exist this side of paradise?

“You see?” my father says. “We got it pretty much made here. They cut our grass every other Thursday. But if you plant anything extra, you tend that. We’ve planted. So I do have a couple outdoor chores for you tomorrow. If you’re willing …” I nod.

“And, of course, able.”

“Willing, yes. Able? that’s always been your call, has it not?”

I didn’t actually say that, did I? A glance at Mom hints that yeah, I probably did.

“Sure.” I try. “Sounds good. Bet we’ll have the weather for it, this being Florida. Is Jeopardy right after the news here or must we slog first through Wheel of Fortune?”

“We like it.” His bitterness—briefly hidden out of shame over the car loss—now marches fully forward. “After dinner, we tend to like our Wheel, son.”

“But the game involves no skill.”

“Just shows how young he is. ’m I, right, Helen?” He gives Mom yet one more chance to show her loyalty, and disown me. “How are we for ice?” She rises; I see how much ground he’s lost with her. I avert my eyes, and proceed with usual cruise-control courtesy. “So, what else … ? How the Albertsons doing?”

Task-Directed

y father says, “You must be tired from traveling. Big day tomorrow, work to do. Best turn in.” He goes to stand. Then Dad decides he can’t get up gracefully, can’t rise at all, so he shrugs to indicate a change of mind—but, hey, he could if he wanted to. Mother and I watch. We try not engaging our usual literary-critical match-set follow-up after-glance.

With me somehow this silvering and not sick yet, with me here at Christmas, I note how the decorations are returned verbatim from last year; they were merely moved upstairs wholesale then down again, and the tiny artificial tree rigged and ornamented, once. Mom’s former deck-the-halls rituals feel, by now, too much like work. I face a seated white-haired man and, rising myself, smile, “Sleep well, all.”