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Having a Meal with You

A poem about time taken for granted

By India ChildsPublished 4 years ago 3 min read
2
The last photo on my camera-roll before Covid-19

We sit in semi darkness as you light the candles,

Waiting eagerly for flames.

You cup the light close to your face, watching the glow,

Your fingertips are still smarting with the graze of the match.

‘We should wait for Mum’ you say eagerly,

And

She walks into the room, eyebrows raised, smiling.

‘Look Mum, look at all the food we made’

You are eager, waiting for the verdict,

Pointing out your masterpiece like a child pointing to

A happy accident they painted on a

Nearby wall.

She gives in. Tries a mushroom, maybe two.

Leaning into the light she becomes a part of the table,

Part of this little group sequestered underneath her kitchen cupboards,

And it’s comforting,

Not claustrophobic, occupying the same small space.

We pass the test, or perhaps what you thought was a test,

And she leaves still smiling, still

Savoring a small joke, a private mirth.

We are hungry, restless.

We wait for something invisible,

A shift in the atmosphere telling us it’s ok to move, to eat, to enjoy.

‘Wait!’ I say, as you lean over to serve the pasta

’Stay still’.

I take out my phone and quickly snap a picture of you,

Enjoying the fruits of your labors.

It is special, so often we are not in the same room, the same place and time.

The clock always catches up with us and we reschedule,

Resume,

Press pause.

I take the photo as you take one of me, and we laugh at how silly it is,

The weight we are putting on to the meaning of a small moment, the value.

We keep them to ourselves, though.

Perhaps afterwards testing each other,

Assuming that whoever shares it cares less, feels nothing.

No intimacy.

We pass again, more green lights, more satisfaction.

More waiting for the next moment.

Not knowing it would be a while until it would come.

Back to dinner.

Refrain over, we eat, and it’s good, really good.

It’s better because elsewhere with different people

We wouldn’t be thinking about the food,

How it tastes,

What it means to cook together,

To talk and laugh

And

Feel that we are made of the same things, the same parts.

In this moment we are unified, the same flesh and the same brain

Making room for debate,

For disagreements,

For decisions.

We coexist and it’s something very close to peace,

The shredding of buttered bread and the

Spearing of roasted mushrooms.

We sit in front of empty plates,

Smeared clean dishes still steaming

From the food.

They are idle now, waiting for the sink,

Biding their time as we savor the aftertaste, thinking

‘We own this, we have triumphed, we have all of the goddamn

Time in the world’.

You turn the music up and dance and we decide to not worry

About everyone else and their evening

We are infinite, our hands lazily

Trailing the kitchen tile,

Our bare feet sliding across the floor

In a two-step set to swing;

It’s all so bright and glorious, so much color

That quickly fades as you recollect the oven

Turning it off hastily so that the heat no longer rises.

We are selfish creatures, nullified by full stomachs,

Lolling tongues dry and heavy from our meal, from

The slow seep in of tiredness.

We take more pictures together and cradle our phones like

Babes, precious and still more hungry,

And then it is hours, maybe minutes, before we go to bed and

decide to once more give in

To the temptation of living comfortably in

Warm beds, not a single care

In our small, revolving door world.

surreal poetry
2

About the Creator

India Childs

I'm an aspiring writer and poet, with a daydreamer's addled brain. Proud editor of This Is Us Youth project which aims to encourage young people to speak up, no matter what they think.

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