Generations

My great-grandmother hosted the family reunion. At nearly ninety-seven, the woman was a force of nature. She had informed every distant relative that they were coming to this party, told them nearly six months in advance and with absolute certainty, leaving no space for excuses. She was incredible like that.

I had been drafted into kitchen duty, which meant I got to chill with Gram, the chief herself. The woman was pitting cherries like there was no tomorrow, a zillion times faster than I was, and I had the cherry pitter and she had the knife.

Enter stage left: Girl about my age, fifteen, with a gigantic watermelon. "Iz," said Gram, "this is Jill." I gave her a cherry-pitter salute. Iz offered a awkwardly watermelon-bobbing nod.

Iz began chopping watermelon. I continued pitting cherries, and then moved on to cutting up the giant sub sandwiches that Gram had purchased. When Iz left to retrieve something, I asked Gram, "How am I related to Iz?" Third cousin twice removed? Niece's aunt on the paternal side?

Gram nodded for me to continue cutting. "She's your half-sister."