The Last Dinners
How simple family meals become sacred when time is running out
Steam rises from the dosa on our dining table, where we’ve gathered every night these past few weeks — all four of us, together. This itself is remarkable.
For years, we ate in shifts and segments — me in my room watching stand-up comedy sets, my sister with her iPad playing sitcoms, my mother catching quick bites between tasks, and my father retreating into his own world of prayers and complaints. Sometimes just me, sometimes my sister and mother, sometimes other combinations, but rarely all together.
Now we arrange ourselves at the rich brown table meant for six — my sister to my left, our parents across from us. The empty chairs seem to hold the weight of our impending absences. Soon she’ll be in the Netherlands with her new husband, and I’ll be in Germany starting a new job. Just six hours apart by train — closer to each other than we’ve been in years — but an ocean away from this table, from our aging parents.
The coconut chutney makes its rounds, passed from hand to hand with a gentleness that wasn’t always there. My father doesn’t complain about the temperature of the food anymore. Where once he might have pushed his plate away with a grimace, now he takes each serving with a quiet “thank you.”
