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Memory of Bones

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The table is old and worn nicks and scratches its red plastic tablecloth left over from a forgotten Christmas its holiday pattern worn and forlorn many a Thanksgiving dinner was hosted the plump turkey as dry as yesterday many wars were waged because father or mom, many school projects worked on till late, because of school this table has withstood much, many dinners of love or cold silence, as warm lamps are downturned Hearing only the hum of lights burning a broadcast of the nightly news babbling all in the family noise droning in the background, as the night bleeds in… with no one watching or caring only waiting, a held moment of breath a suspended minute of wrath shadowed by the turn of affairs, this table worn, old, covered in nicks scratches, its tattered red plastic tablecloth left over from a forgotten Christmas long long ago, its holiday pattern is worn and forlorn, many a Thanksgiving dinner devoured or picked on I sit before the green mid-century plate where forgotten flowers drift, I feel anger, rage, I feel the sorrow for the past A few joys glitter like stars in the vastness of my deep history, feeling the storm always waiting to break, a clash of things better left unsaid or unseen, too much too soon or what shouldn't have been, Or what should have been feeling my age trying to dampen the rage watching fold of ages feeling the turning pages “eat your all your dinner, there are people starving in Africa!” WAIT! What!? I jerk around to see a face never forgotten. Mom? “I don’t want to” I petulantly whine. “You will! AND you will like it!” My father says with a tone of thunder storm with a possible lightning strike of a backhand across any possible exposed edifice of my make the fish just sits, caught by my deviant other and his sycophants, meager is this fish in a meager time, the ice is thin on the skeletons of trees, as thin as sandwiches, remembering the grime feeling out of my element, the broken elegance of memory I stare into the dead eyes of that dead fish small, meager, thin in a thin time as our houses sit vacantly no occupants to warm up their halls no money, flowing to needy hands I struggle to meet this meager fishes gaze Filleted on my mid-century plate with forgotten floral patterns out of place I hate fish, but if not eaten the insults will fly my starving stomach calls for this thin meal But I can hear Mom state in a meager way about meager things, things of importance... The importance of being “grateful” she drones on… I sit and I struggle to meet this meager fishes gaze sitting on my mid-century plate a white floral pattern out of place a stinking meager fish caught just out in the sea. “Be careful of the fishbones, dear," mom drones as she always does... "They are a choking hazard... n-can-kill you," "... you can choke to death!" my dad in tones. So now I hate fish don’t you see l flinch at the MEMORY of Bones... caught, if you will, in my imagery Tracing the patterns, paths of something filleted on my mid-century dish… I remember… …of a table old n worn with nicks n scratches... Covered by a red plastic tablecloth left over from a forgotten Christmas long, long ago its holiday pattern is worn n forlorn many a Thanksgiving dinner came n went with a thin turkey as dry as yesterday... picked on Ha! How I… … how I remember that fish!

Copyright © | Year Posted 2023

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