frosty_gurl02
03-14-2004, 08:24 PM
They’ve all left and I am alone in this house smelling of sweet baked ham and pineapple, with the dirty dishes from dinner abandoned on the counters, circular carcasses with remains of diced onions and splotches of mustard. I stand over it like a graveyard and then quickly decide I would rather be participating in their half-eaten game of solace (does that string bean know it is about to be scraped into the trash?) rather than a spectator, a young woman half-eaten herself and ready for disposal. My skin is itching underneath the fabric of this sweater. Only I could find the deeper meaning in that.
During dinner, I felt as if my father kept belittling me and upon confrontation, he stands in front of me and says, “Look. Me: big. You: small” (in reference to our height, of course.) and then watches amused as my face quickly disgruntles itself.
He laughs and I playfully punch him in the arm.
They never invited me to go with them tonight, my father, my sisters, a boyfriend… I stand with my hands dipping in the grey dish water, food particles floating, bubbles slowly dissolving. I play truth or dare with kitchen knives and pot handles. Besides, I made my own plans tonight. A date with graffiti covered tombstones. You'd be amazed how easy others find it to scrawl their initials on this crumbling body with black felt tip markers.
“I’m surprised you even cooked tonight,” says my sister and I shrug.
“It’s not like it was very hard. Every thing was pre-cooked and packaged.”
… pre-cooked and packaged, like the smile she gave me and I gravely returned.
I don’t recognize the people around this kitchen table, the people who walk out the front door, single file and drive away in a red mini-van with a bucket of tennis balls in the trunk and a little heart made of purple and pink pipecleaners hanging from the rear-view mirror.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they sang “This Land is My Land” in unison as they turned the corner.
And now here I am, a stone statue angel with her wings cracked and chipped wishing she were limber. But really, what difference does it make?
During dinner, I felt as if my father kept belittling me and upon confrontation, he stands in front of me and says, “Look. Me: big. You: small” (in reference to our height, of course.) and then watches amused as my face quickly disgruntles itself.
He laughs and I playfully punch him in the arm.
They never invited me to go with them tonight, my father, my sisters, a boyfriend… I stand with my hands dipping in the grey dish water, food particles floating, bubbles slowly dissolving. I play truth or dare with kitchen knives and pot handles. Besides, I made my own plans tonight. A date with graffiti covered tombstones. You'd be amazed how easy others find it to scrawl their initials on this crumbling body with black felt tip markers.
“I’m surprised you even cooked tonight,” says my sister and I shrug.
“It’s not like it was very hard. Every thing was pre-cooked and packaged.”
… pre-cooked and packaged, like the smile she gave me and I gravely returned.
I don’t recognize the people around this kitchen table, the people who walk out the front door, single file and drive away in a red mini-van with a bucket of tennis balls in the trunk and a little heart made of purple and pink pipecleaners hanging from the rear-view mirror.
I wouldn’t be surprised if they sang “This Land is My Land” in unison as they turned the corner.
And now here I am, a stone statue angel with her wings cracked and chipped wishing she were limber. But really, what difference does it make?