each and every tuesday night

Each and every Tuesday night, we make taco salads. The toppings are spread across the bar with the bare minimum of care, while Chris mixes up his now-famous margaritas. He’s been working on them for nearly a year now, and it shows. Sometimes, the kids get a fancy drink, which is a seltzer water version of a Shirley Temple. Each and every Tuesday, Chris looks up after his fifth or sixth bite and says I could eat this every day. Each and every Tuesday, I get up from the table a bit too early, ready to commence my clean-up dance party; Frank Ocean’s Thinkin Bout You usually starts me off. I screw lids back onto salsas and sauces, twirling them into the fridge, oblivious to the world for a few front-row-concert seconds. Once the kids join me in the kitchen, we meander into emo, hardcore and pop punk. I look up somewhere between the lettuce and the kidney beans to find my son scream-singing the lyrics to Taking Back Sunday or Comeback Kid right along with me, beat for beat, breakdown for breakdown. He is my kid and also, he is becoming my friend. I am alive and in my bones, each and every Tuesday night.