'Better' by Anthony Varallo

It doesn’t get any better than this, the parents agree; their children grown, married, off to start their own lives, while the parents finish up on theirs. Mom! Dad! Don’t say that! their children say. But the parents aren’t listening: they’re off to the nursery again, to buy more trees. Then off to the new Mexican restaurant they don’t really like, but keep recommending to friends nonetheless, because if there’s anything better than finishing a long day of tree planting with a sugary margarita and a second basket of flavorless chips, the parents don’t know what it is.

Have you two considered a retirement community? the children ask. You might really enjoy it. So many activities. So many groups to join!

The parents don’t actually carry the trees themselves. They pay a neighborhood boy to do it for them. Kevin. Or Ken. Either way, he’s worth every blank check they’ve ever written him. The smile he gets whenever they hand him the check. The way he tries to hide it, but can’t. The parents love that about Kevin. Or Ken.

What a new tree lacks in shade, it more than makes up for in charm, the parents think. Branches raised, as if to ask why. And then to see the tree tugging against its ropes, when the wind picks up, while the parents are on their way to pawn their children’s bicycles at the consignment shop? Well, it doesn’t get any better than that.

Please don’t throw our old stuff out, the children say. We still want those things. Please!

The consignment store employees know the parents. Back again? they say. The parents show them what they’ve brought. The employees give them a look like, You two matter more to us than you could ever possibly realize.

It’s amazing how much space has opened up inside the house since the children left. The parents can’t believe it. Sometimes they wander through the hallways, carrying snacks they really aren’t hungry for, marveling at the sound of their footsteps echoing through rooms once full of books and clothes and furniture. It’s like finding another house inside the house. Or it’s like being lost. Either way, the parents can see the new trees from the garage windows, now that the children’s bicycles are gone.

One night, the parents take some friends out to the Mexican restaurant. Our treat, they say. The friends argue, say they’ll pay half, but the parents brush them aside. What’s better than dinner out with friends? they say. They make menu recommendations. They direct the friends toward horrible dish after horrible dish. The parents order every terrible appetizer on the menu and insist on a pitcher of margaritas. A waiter wearing a black apron hands them each a heavy glass, rimmed with salt. They fill the glasses and then raise them for a toast.

What shall we toast to? the friends ask.

To this, the parents say. It doesn’t get any better than this.