At dinner, my son-in-law pushed my plate aside until my food fell to the floor, then smiled and said, “it is just food.”
The dinner plate struck the stone patio before anyone dared say a word. For a brief moment, the entire backyard seemed to stop breathing. The grilled ribeye skidded across the warm concrete, leaving behind a trail of steak juices, melted butter, cracked pepper, and the last traces of my late wife’s seasoning mix. The baked…