Brandi Carlile howling like Exene Cervenka. Willie and Dolly next on the turntable. Ribs slow cooking on the grill. Stone and Chardonnay on ice in the Yeti. Hot afternoon sun scalding the pavers, reminding me to hose down that spot where the dogs do their business one more time.
The boys are of an age where luring all three home at one time requires a special reason — Christmas, Thanksgiving, Mother's Day. The BBQ is supposed to start at 2 but they know we're not going anywhere, so they will arrive with fiancées and girlfriends and gifts and dogs whenever they feel like it.
Calene and I are just fine with that fluid schedule. It's her day so she gets to be the DJ, putting music on the turntable and turning it up loud enough that we hear it in the backyard. The two of us sit in lawn chairs as we wait, watching the May marine layer give way to that searing sun. The hillside across the valley is still yellow with mustard plants but the brown of summer already shows in spots. Rosé for my queen, IPA for me. Something about a cold drink on a lazy day with the sun on your face just feels right.
The cancer is such a constant that we don't need to talk about it. I tell her about yesterday's track meet and its mixed results for my distance crew — but not too long, this being her day. A short pause to appreciate a great guitar riff. Then we are on to conversational shorthand: plans, gossip, backyard projects. Hopes and dreams.
I first laid eyes on Calene thirty-seven years ago this week. Almond brown eyes sparkling, firecracker wit, a tight skirt that dared me to look away. Nothing's changed. She reaches over and absentmindedly runs a nail down my deltoid and an electric charge runs through my body.
I pour refills and check the barbecue. Cooking ribs is my Achilles Heel. I just never get them right, no matter what the recipe. They've been on for three low and slow hours and I feel like this might be my lucky day. The rub is brown sugar, dried mustard, garlic powder, smoked paprika, kosher salt, ground black pepper. When we first got married I had a little propane grill out back of our apartment, then I went to wood when we got into the house, now I'm back to gas on the island grill I waited fifteen years to build. Calene knows what I cook well and what I don't, so ribs on Mother's Day is a testimony to her faith that this time I might just get it right.
We sit in the sun, thinking our own thoughts during gaps in the conversation. When she wonders when we should finally replace the upstairs carpeting I tell her I was about to say the same thing. That happens a lot. I tell her that I love her and she tells me that she loves me too.
Django barks. Loud, sudden, sharp. Devin's here, straight from a camping trip. Then Connor, dressed like Yves Montand in turtleneck and jacket. And Liam, taking a break from moving into a new apartment. All stepping through the front door at once. Hugs and kisses. Unnecessary apologies about tardiness. Laughter. Everyone talking all at once.
Calene's first Mother's Day was thirty-three years ago. It was a novelty to say Happy Mother's Day to my bride for the first time. This was before she grew into the Mama Bear she has since become. I may be her soulmate but these boys — they're men now, but will always be her boys — are Calene's everything. She will go to war for them. Her laughter is the most honest and delightful sound I know. It carries over the living room as the boys tell stories about their day.
I go back outside to check on the ribs. They're not amazing. Just pretty good. Then I take a moment to memorize everything I am hearing and seeing. This is my lucky day. I want to write it down and forever remember how good this Mother's Day feels.
And so I have.