“It’s that time again.” I sit down and think about the summers when my mother would round us up and make us pick tomatoes. Then she would spend the next week making homemade sauce with her cousins. I always remember that as a time for us to get together with our cousins. It’s a memory that always makes me smile.

“Yes, your mother is already washing the canning jars,” he says. “You know she’ll send you some.”

“I still have some from last year,” I tell him, thinking of the jars in my pantry. I open them only on Sunday. Another tradition that I get from my mother—pasta Sunday. Every single Sunday, we would go over to my nonna’s house and have lunch. All of us would gather around the two tables while she made meatballs, sausage, and braciole stuffed with prosciutto and cheese. As the family kept getting bigger and bigger, the tables stayed the same, but we just didn’t have as much room. When Nonna passed away, my mother took over the tradition, so every Sunday, the smell of sauce would linger in the house starting at six a.m.

“You know your mom,” he says, and I just nod. “She wants to make sure you have it. How is hockey going?”

“Good,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “I’m sitting out for the preseason, but I will send you guys tickets for the opening game.”

“You know we would never miss it,” my father says, and I smile. He was there for every single game with his jacket zipped up and his hands nervously tapping his leg the whole time. My mother shrieked every single time the puck came to me. “You sound tired.”

“Yeah, I didn’t get much sleep last night,” I tell him, my mind going back to Vivienne, and I wonder what she’s doing.

“You do too much, Markos. You need to find a woman who can take care of you,” he says, the traditionalist in him.

“I can take care of myself.” I laugh. “I haven’t starved yet.”

“Yeah, but you need a woman,” he says, and I close my eyes. “You know, to keep you warm.”

I groan. “And that is how we are going to end this conversation,” I tell him. “I love you. Kiss Mom for me.”

“I will speak with you tomorrow,” he says, and I hang up, putting the phone down. Feeling a water drop on my hand, I look up and see gray clouds rolling in.

The door closes behind me right as the sky opens, and it begins to pour. I see the lightning strike in the distance and listen to the thunder. I pick up my phone and call Vivienne; it goes to voice mail after four rings.

“Bonjour laissez-moi un message.”

Her French makes my whole face light up.

“Hey there, it’s me. Just wondering how you are doing. Call me back.”