By Joan Potter

My cousin – I’ll call her Betsy – sends an email saying she’d love to see me. It’s been two years; she lives an hour and a half away. But, she adds, “I’m afraid we will have to wait for a bit to invite you to our home.”

The we includes her husband, whom I’ll name Nick. They used to invite my sons and me for lunch every summer. On our last visit, it was announced that Nick had prepared the meal. It included a bowl of something, possibly chicken, in a bright orange sauce. While serving himself, my son Jonathan dropped a bit of sauce on the tablecloth. 

“There’s turmeric in that,” Nick observed. “It will never come out.” I guess it didn’t, which might account for the two-year silence.

In her email, Betsy suggests that they might be able to see me in early November or early December “depending how we all are.” It’s now the end of July. She and Nick have a busy schedule; she thoughtfully tells me every detail:

Last fall they took a boat and bike trip to Provence. In June they returned home from a sail and bike trip along the coast of Sweden and Denmark. They spent July on Fire Island with friends and family. Home for the month of August. (Maybe she shouldn’t have told me that, since we won’t be invited for lunch.) Back on Fire Island in September. Away for the month of October.

“Anyway,” she closes, “I hope you are doing well and your family too.”

  I have to come up with a reply. Possibly something like, “Might see you in December if I’m not snowbound.”

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Joan Potter’s nonfiction has appeared in anthologies and literary journals, including The Bluebird Word, New Croton Review, The RavensPerch, Persimmon Tree, Airplane Reading, Bright Flash Literary Review, and others. She is the author or coauthor of several nonfiction books. The most recent is the collaborative memoir “Still Here Thinking of You: A Second Chance With Our Mothers.”