Laughing Down the Moon Read Free Page B

cloak thrown over one arm and a bouquet of homegrown, dried flowers in the other. She must have cut down what was left of her impressive garden in preparation for the winter. I jumped up to unburden at least one of her arms. Patrick did the same. I went for the flowers, and he went for the backpack and the cloak. Veronica, with gift bags still dangling, gave us both hugs and called hello to Trisha who had returned to the kitchen. I placed the dried flowers in the glass vase that stood on the tiny table by the front door. The vase was always there, always ready, for Veronica never arrived without something from her garden.
    “Happy All Sah-veeeeen, Veronica!” Trisha called.
    Veronica tossed her coat over the banister. She wore a low- cut dark green blouse that showed off her deep, soft cleavage. An even darker green velvet skirt with black lace edging and her tiny black ankle boots finished the outfit. She and I smiled at each other over Trisha’s careful pronunciation.
    Veronica called back, “Thank you, my dear!”
    “What’s in the bags?” Patrick asked, setting the backpack on the floor and draping the cloak over the back of a chair. He returned to Veronica’s side and started peering into the folds of black tissue paper that filled the intriguing silver bags.
    “Never mind, nosy!” Veronica jerked the bags out of Patrick’s reach. Her brown eyes were shiny with secret knowledge. She loved surprising us with what she called her little giftees. “See if you can find some patience in one of those wineglasses,” Veronica said.
    “Harrumph. I’ll find something in here,” Patrick said, holding out an empty glass and inspecting it by the light cast from the collection of candles on the fireplace hearth, “but I doubt it will be patience.”
    He filled it with wine and passed it to me, then handed another to Veronica. She found a space for herself on the floor as Patrick filled the remaining three glasses, called to Trisha and passed one to her after she set a stack of five small white plates on the coffee table. Trisha settled in on the floor beside me. She leaned against the couch, tucked a strand of her flaxen hair behind one ear and inhaled deeply over her wine.
    “Ahh,” she breathed out.
    “Everybody ready?” Veronica asked.
    We nodded and looked at each other to make sure there was nothing else that needed to be said before we honored those who had passed before us with our silent supper. I was more than ready this year. Having to listen to Patrick tell Veronica about the laugh yoga mishap this morning was not high on my list of fun evening activities, so I was relieved to be entering at least an hour of silence. If the story came up after dinner, well, so be it. For now, I welcomed the communal solitude.
    “Wait!” Trisha hopped up, dashed to the mp3 deck and turned the volume up. “There’s nothing worse,” she said, “than listening to chewing during these silent suppers.” She arranged herself on the floor next to me again. “That’s okay, isn’t it? To have music at dinner, I mean. It’s not silent, but—”
    “Of course it is,” said Veronica, nodding. Her lingering glance touched all of us. I knew she was going through some of the ritual in her head, rather than in actuality, in order to not weird out Patrick. She cleared her throat and sat taller, kneeling with her heels tucked beneath her beside the low table. “Okay,” she continued, raising her wineglass toward the middle of the coffee table, “tonight, in silence, under the light of the waxing moon and with the warmth of the creatures of fire, do we honor those who have come and gone before us. Let us do what we can to walk respectfully in their steps and be open to their words tonight if they need to reconnect themselves with us to offer guidance. We give thanks for another wonderfully abundant harvest, and we give thanks for the beginning of the end of yet another incredible year. God, Goddess, Mother Earth, let us sense