Summer Sundays were always meant for al fresco dinners. An opportunity for a busy family to share the week’s news over a bottle of wine and a table straining with food.
I didn’t see why it had to be different after the accident. Every week I prepared a spread fit for a king, only I was the sole diner.
On Monday mornings, when I opened my curtains and looked out on the patio, the wrought iron chairs had always moved. Haphazardly discarded by ghosts in the night who carried tradition beyond the grave.
I was the sole diner, but I was never truly alone.