Dinner

Growing up, we’d have dinner as a family. Everyone had to be sat down at the dinner table, despite various complains. That was the norm, until we began moving out, and traditions changed, norms reconfigured.

 

 

 

Every night she would yell from the bottom of the stairs, calling us down to eat. That time, we were blind to how much she slaved in the kitchen, we did offer help here and there, but still, it wasn’t enough compared to just how much of her labour she poured into every action she did. Every night she complained about our inability to bring ourselves downstairs to eat at the right time, and yet every night we complain to her about how busy we are with our lives, and how we could do with just one more minute.

 

 

 

Now, alone, away from her, we realise how much her words meant. To fill the gap of having a table filled with people, I waste my time choosing tv shows that only drown out the silence. Nothing too though provoking, just enough for some humour and long enough for me to empty my plate. Even with others around me, the setting is just not right. And the food? Just doesn't taste as good as it should be. Maybe the spices aren't right?

 

 

 

The older you get, the more you realise. And the realisation sucks. Having that tiny part of your brain say "I told you so" in that condescending tone doesn't help either. Sighing, I sit down to a plate of creamy mash and spicy roast chicken, with my laptop open, and my bland meal in front of me, I open up an episode of Friends.

 

 

 

Its an endless spiral.