Shamrock Shakes
Shamrock Shakes
by Chase Polyak
She had over 100 children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. The number was quite impressive, and as such led to an impressively attended wake. In my own tier, as a great-grandchild, I lived the closest to her, and knew the area better than my travel-weary cousins and second cousins. I was the first to suggest we relieve ourselves from that dark and stifling room and go for some french fries and milkshakes.
The restaurant was a chain, something we all knew, and we laid our eyes up on a big high top table in the center of the room. After we ordered more fries and shamrock shakes than we thought we could collectively consume, we went to sit. Us girls in our black dresses and skirts let our hair down, and the boys loosened the ties over their collared shirts and we sat down, fully exhaling for the first time in hours.
Eight of us cousins sat around a greasy table with our mint milkshakes, chicken nuggets, and fries. We were all laughably overdressed for the neighborhood McDonalds. Sauce packets lay open on the table and were slid from person to person upon request. Licking fingers and spilling shakes, our rowdy, well-dressed crowd drew it’s fair share of backwards glances and sympathetic smiles. The conversation there was spirited in a way that it couldn’t be when hundreds of people had gathered to offer their condolences to our parents and grandparents, and kneel to pray at the casket to say rosaries that hadn’t survived to our generation. After enough hours of the tears and the quiet nods and the handshakes, we needed to get away. So for an hour we sat and talked about school, work, anxiety, boyfriends, girlfriends, the limited Polish we all knew, and Grandma Dee. Some of the cousins were quieter, tired from their trip into the state, or simply the endless run of relatives we’d met before today but still didn’t know. At one point, I, myself, allowed my head to rest in my hands for just a moment to allow a tear to slip down my rouged cheeks.
The atmosphere was something out of a painting. The windows darkened to a deep black around us and eventually the conversation dulled while we watched the cars’ headlights blur together on the road outside. Regretful looks at phones and watches signified that our reprieve there was done, and it was time to return. So we filed out back into the van, ready to trade the smiles for tears once more, whether we wanted to or not.