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Description
I am jolted apart from my homework by the irritated yelps my mother lets out at 6:30 sharp, calling me down to dinner. A few quick sprints down the stairs and through the main level of our typical American home places me in my country-style kitchen, comprised of a rustic round table and hardwood floors. We are surrounded by the predictably plain colors of beige and faded red, like a fine wine that has waited too long on the shelf to be sipped. My plate is set in the back corner of the room, the same spot I've claimed for as long as I can remember. To my right is my mother's chair, the other two homes to empty ghosts. During our dinner prayer, I glance out the window at the trees in our backyard, swaying in the breeze and growing with the spring. Our hands follow the Sign of the Cross, and so our meal begins.

Tonight's gourmet dish is a Mexican wonderland, comprised of hot beef enchiladas and overly salted refried beans from a can. Melted cheddar cheese wafts through the air as a subtle reminder of the simple days of childhood, combined with the stinging scent of salsa and the aroma of what were once a few lively Easter lilies. I stare at them now and all I smell is their failed attempts at staying in bloom. A chill colder than my icy Dr Pepper breezes into our kitchen through the open dining room door and plants on my skin, kissing my spine with ice.

Mom hears our ultimate silence, it sounds like a death march. In an attempt to awaken our quiet souls, she turns on the radio to a station that wails forgotten 80's love songs. Def Leppard and Bryan Adams glorify us in song while I sample my mother's bittersweet attempts at conversation. The tires on a truck roll outside our house, perhaps the mailman arrived late today. Those tires remind me of my childhood, slowly fading away while no one tries to pump them up. Soon enough they'll be gone and will need to be replaced.

My eyes wander to my mother as she eats. I notice again her unconsciously loud chewing and the continued pattern of her consumption: chew, chew, drink. Chew, chew, drink. Some hidden part of my brain questions why she must do everything so regularly, why she never jumps to do something fun or exciting. She is dressed in clothes much too large for her, even if she may not be the perfect size 0 to begin with. A baggy t-shirt flows about her like a cloak that I know she'd drown in if she could, and the majority of her legs are covered by the typical "soccer mom" capris. They show no shape, but I know beneath all that superfluous fabric is the remnants of a beautiful woman. I've seen her in those gorgeous days. But where have they gone?

It seems like she stares at nothing, her mind blank of thought. So when she asks "How are your grades?" or "Do you have a lot of homework?", I know that her interest is feigned. She's afraid to ask me anything too sensitive or something about the real world, like gay marriages or politics because she knows we are rarely on the same side. Our differing opinions linger in the air like dust.

The seemingly empty meal is interrupted by the howling of our 7-year-old cat, Louie. We recognize his rapid tread on our new carpet and the scraping of his front claws on our stairs and couches. He contributes more to a conversation than neither mom nor I ever have.

Sooner than I expected, my plate is clean and all I am left with is the checkered pattern of a Vanity Fair napkin and the inscribed flowers at the end of a fork older than I am. The napkin is harsh against my skin, the flowers that were once soft and shiny now transforming into scratchy rust. Yet another meal that has defined the adverse of familial luxury. I venture to clean the dishes that I will eat from tomorrow, just one more meal promising the sweet sensation of solitude. Even when my company is right beside me.

Description
I am jolted apart from my homework by the irritated yelps my mother lets out at 6:30 sharp, calling me down to dinner. A few quick sprints down the stairs and through the main level of our typical American home places me in my country-style kitchen, comprised of a rustic round table and hardwood floors. We are surrounded by the predictably plain colors of beige and faded red, like a fine wine that has waited too long on the shelf to be sipped. My plate is set in the back corner of the room, the same spot I've claimed for as long as I can remember. To my right is my mother's chair, the other two homes to empty ghosts. During our dinner prayer, I glance out the window at the trees in our backyard, swaying in the breeze and growing with the spring. Our hands follow the Sign of the Cross, and so our meal begins.

Tonight's gourmet dish is a Mexican wonderland, comprised of hot beef enchiladas and overly salted refried beans from a can. Melted cheddar cheese wafts through the air as a subtle reminder of the simple days of childhood, combined with the stinging scent of salsa and the aroma of what were once a few lively Easter lilies. I stare at them now and all I smell is their failed attempts at staying in bloom. A chill colder than my icy Dr Pepper breezes into our kitchen through the open dining room door and plants on my skin, kissing my spine with ice.

Mom hears our ultimate silence, it sounds like a death march. In an attempt to awaken our quiet souls, she turns on the radio to a station that wails forgotten 80's love songs. Def Leppard and Bryan Adams glorify us in song while I sample my mother's bittersweet attempts at conversation. The tires on a truck roll outside our house, perhaps the mailman arrived late today. Those tires remind me of my childhood, slowly fading away while no one tries to pump them up. Soon enough they'll be gone and will need to be replaced.

My eyes wander to my mother as she eats. I notice again her unconsciously loud chewing and the continued pattern of her consumption: chew, chew, drink. Chew, chew, drink. Some hidden part of my brain questions why she must do everything so regularly, why she never jumps to do something fun or exciting. She is dressed in clothes much too large for her, even if she may not be the perfect size 0 to begin with. A baggy t-shirt flows about her like a cloak that I know she'd drown in if she could, and the majority of her legs are covered by the typical "soccer mom" capris. They show no shape, but I know beneath all that superfluous fabric is the remnants of a beautiful woman. I've seen her in those gorgeous days. But where have they gone?

It seems like she stares at nothing, her mind blank of thought. So when she asks "How are your grades?" or "Do you have a lot of homework?", I know that her interest is feigned. She's afraid to ask me anything too sensitive or something about the real world, like gay marriages or politics because she knows we are rarely on the same side. Our differing opinions linger in the air like dust.

The seemingly empty meal is interrupted by the howling of our 7-year-old cat, Louie. We recognize his rapid tread on our new carpet and the scraping of his front claws on our stairs and couches. He contributes more to a conversation than neither mom nor I ever have.

Sooner than I expected, my plate is clean and all I am left with is the checkered pattern of a Vanity Fair napkin and the inscribed flowers at the end of a fork older than I am. The napkin is harsh against my skin, the flowers that were once soft and shiny now transforming into scratchy rust. Yet another meal that has defined the adverse of familial luxury. I venture to clean the dishes that I will eat from tomorrow, just one more meal promising the sweet sensation of solitude. Even when my company is right beside me.