Chapter 5. C U at Christmas

The two years dead parents of his wife were in his phone contacts Herman discovered one morning. Still there that night when he went to his bed. Didn't expect he'd ever feel the need to call them, kept the numbers though, you never know, just in case.
Herman had less truck with city folk, the rodent race and traffic since he'd retired, from dozens of exchanges a day to less than a dozen, maybe say, five on a Friday. He had a forty minute drive for a coffee and recently, a bear in a tree just up the hill.
Herman's wife's brother and his extended family invited them both for a Thanksgiving meal. Yes, please. Herman said after a moment, they can be free of us, this Christmas, this year. The whirled stopped spinning during covid and won't spin again, he feared. But when the children were sat at the table, Herman whispered an aside, there beauty, their being, they're promise and he got a stern nod from his wife.
"Is that my car?" Herman wondered before he sat down to eat. Beep beep beep coming from the street, a street in scary Scarborough. On his way to the curb with his key in his hand Herman saw a young one released from the acoustic prison of his dad's car. When Herman passed the kid coming in he thought he looked pretty excited, Herman guessed he enjoyed pretending he was driving. Herman was wrong. More like high alert, near panic. They laughed about it a couple of times that night.
The magic meal made Herman wait to eat it, first the bowls, the platters and bottles. Then the mint jelly then the gravy then the jam where they held hands and swayed because they meant it during a blessing from father land. The turkey the lamb the taters and shrooms, stewed cabbage turnips and corn.
The littlest one sat beside him. Herman helped her dad put food on her plate. Three teaspoons of turnip. Herman, near half a cup the first round, another quarter cup the second pass, and to wash it down flutes of sparkly grape.