Feb 2021
“Eat your dinner, son. Eat your dinner.” The parallel invisibility of children in the same spaces. We never ate together at a table unless it was at Olive Garden or Applebee’s, never ate together unless our faces were lit with television fluorescence and the pressure of conversation was dulled with background noise. More walls than one could count in the living room, more than what was built, enough to surprise, stun, scare a kid. There was never an opening wide enough to look at someone’s entire face straight on. I learned life is just corners.
“I don’t know how you’re okay, but if you ever aren’t, you can talk to me.”
Why would you say that to me? Do you know why? No answer.
I knew why. Paper receipts. Letters typed out and printed. Travel pamphlets of cold words.
Food and what it does to us. Children peering into the fridge; the sensitivity of breakdowns on the dinner plate. Arguments. Shaky silverware, hidden napkins under the couch, ringing bells fixed and bolted into place in the far back of unclean new brains. Years after, it’s a different couch, it’s a different dinner plate, but the frequency is the same. It’s awful, it’s frustrating. Insanity on the surface but deep down it makes sense. That’s true pain, you know. Where’s the ******* screwdriver.
I’m nervous and it shows. “Would you like to say grace before dinner?”
Save grace? Trade grace? I never found what you’re looking for. I’m so sorry.
Forks on the wrong side and too many knives. Napkin goes on your lap this time and I’m so confused.
At least I can say I tried. Eat your dinner eat your dinner eat your dinner. There’s no dinner for you. Go to your room. Survival and punishment. Sometimes it feels like all I have is my hands. Food is under my nails and I can’t get it out and that doesn’t feel right but how do you stop. Where is it? There’s no stopping, just ringing. Can anybody else hear it? The family with three sizes of spoons is watching me like I am an animal in a burning barn. Drag me out.
“I don’t know how you’re okay, but if you ever aren’t, you can talk to me.”
Why would you say that to me? Do you know why? No answer.
I knew why. Paper receipts. Letters typed out and printed. Travel pamphlets of cold words.
Food and what it does to us. Children peering into the fridge; the sensitivity of breakdowns on the dinner plate. Arguments. Shaky silverware, hidden napkins under the couch, ringing bells fixed and bolted into place in the far back of unclean new brains. Years after, it’s a different couch, it’s a different dinner plate, but the frequency is the same. It’s awful, it’s frustrating. Insanity on the surface but deep down it makes sense. That’s true pain, you know. Where’s the ******* screwdriver.
I’m nervous and it shows. “Would you like to say grace before dinner?”
Save grace? Trade grace? I never found what you’re looking for. I’m so sorry.
Forks on the wrong side and too many knives. Napkin goes on your lap this time and I’m so confused.
At least I can say I tried. Eat your dinner eat your dinner eat your dinner. There’s no dinner for you. Go to your room. Survival and punishment. Sometimes it feels like all I have is my hands. Food is under my nails and I can’t get it out and that doesn’t feel right but how do you stop. Where is it? There’s no stopping, just ringing. Can anybody else hear it? The family with three sizes of spoons is watching me like I am an animal in a burning barn. Drag me out.
