Dinner

Such a little thing, but it irritated me.

I wanted to ask her why she did

it, but I knew the answer. That’s

the way my mother did it she would

say. Always the perfectly prepared

meals. She was like a chord being

plucked in the wrong decade, the

June Cleaver of the new century.

I always try to imagine my mother

as a teenager, full of hopes and

dreams, but the images never come.

Grandma’s here I shout. “Hey Grandma,

why did you cut of the end off the roast?”

“We didn’t have a pot big enough for the

whole roast,” she smiled. I hear a spoon

clatter to the floor and I see my mother’s

crestfallen face. In that instant I knew this

was one of her dreams. These beautiful meals

that she so painstakingly created. I feel

ashamed. I gather up the spoon and my

mothers hand. Thank you I say, thank

you for sharing your dream.