It was raining the last Christmas we spent with our father.

Technically, it was the last one we spent with my mother, too.

She was the one who knew how to call him.

A stubborn man, he was, who had only listened to what she said.

We all used to say that he was afraid of her.

She turned him around, Mother would often say.

Otherwise, he would be out drinking, and if would often say. Otherwise, he would be out drinking,

and if it weren't for her, he would be out in the streets begging for coins to get a beer out of the refrigerated section of the local U-Tons, an expired food store. Not expired, just not optimal,

my father would say. But they loved each other in their own ways.

He would bring her the groceries and his paycheck every Monday. And every single Monday we would

have chicken soup, no matter the weather or the time of the year. No one else liked it as much

as my father did. It was how they fell in love, he would say, when he was feeling talkative.

It's how we knew that he was a softie behind that tough skin.

They had been traveling between cities that year to be home just in time to spend Christmas with their parents.

But they got stuck due to a storm that year and had to stay at one of my father's uncle's

homes along the way.

They hadn't defrosted the chicken, the gas lines were stuck.

My mother had gotten everything together, grabbing some of the frozen vegetables and starting

chopping up onions and searching through the spice cabinet, something that would work.

The water they had was poured into a pot, and the wood was fired up outside.

It was the best chicken soup I've ever had, he would say.

It was a story we had heard many times, but my sisters and I liked the way that he would tell it.

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