the dining-room table

i don't remember the last time i ate dinner at the table with just my mother. sometimes, we clear off the piles of papers which make it their home, and entertain guests, doing our best to mimic what families do on t.v.. i don't remember the last time my mother cooked, but now i remember why she stopped: overcooked chicken with burnt sauce, turnips whose skin had not been removed, and success rice with unmixed in chunks of season-packet. i had three bites and was full. perhaps more sad than the meal was the conversation. without the t.v. on, we were left to each other; even when we eat out i do homework and she brings a book.

just when i was beginning to fear that this is what’s left of family, i realized i still have my dad’s. suddenly the constant noise and being made to look after the siblings didn’t seem so bad.

then i ordered some take-out.