“Wow! Bob and Trina have a beautiful house,” I said to Sherry as we parked the golf cart. “It’s big, too.”
“It has to be big,” she said. “With Maya families there are usually several generations living under one roof. So, there’s usually plenty of kids and grandkids around.”
“Bob’s not Maya,” I said. “He’s from New Orleans.”
“If your wife is Maya, so are you,” Sherry said. “That’s why they invited us to a true Maya dinner tonight.”
When Trina greeted us at the door she said, “Bob has the rest of the family at the volleyball game. They’ll be back any minute now.”
She and Sherry disappeared into the kitchen to do magic things with food. I picked up an unusual looking piece of Maya pottery from an end table and I was examining it when Trina came back in.
“I’ve seen a lot of Maya pots,” I told her, “but never a jug. Is it a real artifact?”
“Oh, not a chance. It’s a replica of a pre-Columbian jug from northern Guatemala, where my family is originally from.”
I picked it up and looked into it.
“It even has painted decorations on the inside,” I said.
I checked closely to see how far the painted circles went inside the mouth of the jug.
“Be careful not to spill any of that grey powdery stuff on yourself,” Trina said. “Those are my father’s ashes.”
“Oh, my God!” I said, quickly putting the jug down. “I’m so sorry.”
“Why should you be sorry?” she asked. “He’s the one who’s too lazy to go get an ashtray.”
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