Superbowl Sunday

My dad does not like football. At all. Ever.

My mother loved football. With a passion. I don't know if it was she loved football players or the game, but she enjoyed both. Every year she would have her very own Superbowl Party. No one would be invited. She would go into her room, load her bed with chips, dip, soda, the remote and the phone. She would watch the game and indulge herself all day long. This was a ritual.

When I provided her with grandchildren, they would be invited to her party. They would spend the day with grandma and enjoy the goodies and the kinship. Once their tummies were full they would move on to grandpa for amusement.

This year, grandma is gone and grandpa doesn't understand the Superbowl. But for some reason I was compelled to have a Superbowl Party. I bought junk food, sodas, all of it. I laid out the spread, made sure Dad's pants were dry and had him watching TV with me. I told him we were going to watch the game and he actually seemed interested.

Twelve minutes before game time the neighbors came over and wanted to know if they could watch the game at our house as they don't have cable. So now, out of the blew, with 12 minutes notice, I am hosting the neighborhood super bowl.

You don't know this but we live in my parent's house. All the goodies I bought for our family of 6 will now feed 12 as game snacks and the sodas I had stockpiled will quench the throats of the partiers. And the house that has seen 12 solitary Super bowl parties, will be hosting a super bowl party for the neighborhood. Our world that seemed so small and sad and consumed with death, dying, grief and illness, has been replaced with a living room full of boys yelling at the TV and celebrating life and football. Life and football are truly gifts.