Gemotions

The Sunday roast was nearly ruined. Mother had been anticipating this meal for weeks, the centerpiece a glorious, glistening ham. Now, instead of carving, she was fielding questions. Questions about the Imam, about halal meat, about why *now*. Aunt Carol, usually a fountain of laughter, sat ramrod straight, her smile surgically attached. Across the table, her jaw worked, silently grinding the words she dared not speak. The clinking of silverware on china became a cacophony, a grating counterpoint to the pronouncements about embracing a new spiritual path. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air – tiny, irrelevant reminders of a world continuing, oblivious. Aunt Carol excused herself, her chair scraping harshly against the floorboards.