Conversations over dinner

 You used to feed me stories whenever you could.

A pinch of salt served with refusal as you slapped my hand stretching out to grab a sweet dish from the kitchen counter.

It is only for the guests, you would say and carry it on a tray into the living room.

I would sit in the kitchen quietly, playing with the letters that inhabit the northern edge of your fridge.

Quiet act of protest.

‘Pro-test’.

‘Test’

‘Text’

‘Taste’

‘Stay’

Stay still for a moment. 

Suspended in the act of pouring the water from one vessel into the other.

A mundane action, repeated many times before and as many times after suddenly coming to a halt.

Releasing the breath in that moment of stillness when the thoughts cease to run around and the pieces of peas on your plate bulge in an attempt to nourish us with meaningful conversation.

We fail in it repeatedly, but still tomorrow you will cook the same meal again not to leave me hungry for words of stories that you take one after another from the pockets of your torn trousers.

Nutritional value is important, you say as I lie me head on the pillow.

Tomorrow will be  another day.

The sweet lost its taste, but I’ve learned to enjoy bitterness and salt.

I stay.