Silent Dinner

Tw- Grief and heavy topics (Family Disapproval and dead-beat dad)

Walking is easy, running is harder, and talking in the dark seems impossible.

A stream of consciousness will run for all eternity, weaving through heads emptying from the mouth, and collecting in quiet places to grow from whispers into words.

Darkness.

Darkness attracts all the medium thoughts of life. Darkness sits at kitchen tables filled with food and the emptying of minds.

Darkness sits at kitchen tables like mine, tables quiet with food, and the only opening of the mouth happens when somebody dares to eat. We could have nothing to think about or we could have too much.

Crunch

I looked up from my plate which had long stayed still.

Crunch

Somebody is eating. Two pairs of eyes watch her take simple bites of burnt food, and nobody can look away. Nobody dares.

I lift my fork and scrape the meat sitting in front of me, it has peeling black spots on the top. I stab the center and peel apart the middle, it's tender and soft on the inside. I smell the burnt part the strongest. I close my eyes and take deep breaths until the savory scent pushes past the burnt and greets my nose. The corners of my mouth turn up ever so slightly. My brain remembers food is necessary and takes a bite.

A part of me yearns for another bite, but I set the fork down.

She was the first to eat and the first to continue eating. She looks graceful, even with tear-streaked cheeks and puffy eyes. She was the firstborn and the last left. She lost her mother today, the only person that still shared her last name. She is my mother.

He still hasn’t eaten or even touched his plate, opting instead to stare at a chip in the wall behind him. He doesn’t have tear-stricken cheeks but a look in his eyes that is much worse. He lost his grandmother today, the only one that stood up for him. The only person he could trust. He is my brother.

And me. There isn’t much that describes me. I don’t mourn the loss of my grandmother. She didn’t love me, for I am not my brother. My brother is from a different father, one that treated my mother right and is currently at work. I was born with a father who is a liar and a criminal now. He is not working, he is in jail. Why would a mourn somebody who scoffed when I cried to her and refused to touch me as I grew older.

But she loved my family, so how could I fully hate her?

My mother was crying when she told me the news, she told me we can’t forget the dead only forgive them. I stared blankly at her and said “Okay.” I didn’t fall into her and start crying heavy tears, I didn’t look destroyed like my brother. I looked normal.

She didn’t like that. She always told me that my grandmother was old and was hurt by how my father had hurt her. She told me this when I was young and when my grandmother started forcing me outside when I was in her house alone. Why would I care if she was hurt by somebody I never knew? I was 5 and wanted to be with my grandmother.

I wonder if she's thinking about that now, how hurt I must have been. Or maybe she is just thinking about how her mother is dead. Her mother is dead and her daughter hasn’t shed a tear. Her plate is steadily being eaten, it must go down easy with the tears that drop on the plate every few minutes. 

My brothers stomach rumbles and we all glance at him. My brother is 7 and known for his appetite, grandmother always gave him seconds. Silence ripples through the room, and my mother and I make eye contact. We may not care for each other but our love for my brother is enough. The eye contact never stops. It's a challenge, whoever loses has to speak. 

1

2

3…

Her eyes are watery and I can't tell if it's from tears or not. She glances down, defeated. Maybe my father's genes helped, maybe it's from years of this.

“Liam.”

It feels like she yelled.

My brother glances at his plate and picks up a pea with his fingers, squishing it before popping it in his mouth.

Satisfied, my mother looked back to her plate. Minutes passed before my mother looks at the clock hanging above the stove. It’s been 20 minutes since we sat down to eat, an adequate time. I could now leave without being disrespectful, but my feet wouldn’t move.

This is all my fault. Maybe if I wasn’t so emotionless we could cry together and laugh about the good things she did. I could fake it but then I’m a liar, just like everybody says I am. Maybe if I wasn’t here the air would be lighter and that pressure that makes my mother hunch every day would be gone. I look over at my brother. No, it wouldn’t be different because I'm not the problem. My brother is my life. I will take care of him for as long as I can.

It’s not me. It’s not me. It’s not…me. I feel freedom coursing through my veins. It was never me. I don't control my father, I didn’t control my mother's actions, and I sure as hell didn't ask to be born. 

“Mom.”

All eyes turn towards me.

“What was grandmother's favorite food?”

I didn’t ask to be spiteful. I asked because a woman sat in front of me. I asked because the woman looked twenty years older than she should be and she lost her mother today. I had no big feelings toward my mother but I would be torn if she died. I could play the good daughter, I could hug and tell her “Sorry for her loss,” I could do that. 

Something swelled in her eyes. 

“Apples…Apples were her favorite food.” 

“I'll get some tomorrow, mom”

She gave me a small nod and lifted her plate from the table. 

“I can take your plate for you?”

She nodded again. I got up and grabbed my plate and stacked it atop hers. From the corner of my eye, I saw my mother leave the room. I don’t think ill ever get proper closure, that's too good for me. I'll get a smile that hopefully means she understands. 

I dump the dishes in the sink and kiss my brother on the cheek, he had begun to eat. I smiled and walked out of the kitchen, for now, I was content. 

For now, I was free in my own mind.