The Last Supper

Cozy quarters and dim lighting, the ambience protected me. My anxiety faded, but I knew I existed in a temporary oasis, in the last few moments before we would endure. 

Shrimp fried rice was passed around the table as I sucked on another edamame pod covered in sea salt. A row of 12 unique pieces of nigiri was presented in front of me. The next hour would be filled with opportunities to consume excess salt and raw fish. They would be the last.

My grandmother is scared of sushi, but during this supper she obeyed my command to discard her worries. My brother, sitting to my left, encouraged me to use soy sauce and ginger. I obliged. My grandfather ate teriyaki chicken, my mother some fried rice, and my father some vegetarian rolls. 

My brother expressed his anxiety for what would come the next day, wishing his disease would disappear. The waitress approached, and as she filled my glass with water, my eccentric grandmother without reason explained to her that he would be undergoing a kidney transplant. She responded unexpectedly. Her sister had been on a transplant list and on dialysis for years. I still remember her name. With that, we all knew to be grateful for what my brother had been able to have. A gift of life.