When I was young, my mother
Was obsessed with not eating.
She’d scream, Skip the carbs, no bread
Or rice. Today I view food
Like a used car salesman,
The mirror as a cross-examination
To see if anything is amiss,
The muffin top, the sags.
And still, I hear the trill of her voice,
Reminders of me playing the part
Of the beauty. Eat spinach,
she warned while greens turned
My stomach, couldn’t finish
The plate of rapini and peas.
Scolded, I’d stay till I downed my meal
Which never happened.
The broccolini began to smell
As my brothers watched back
To back episodes of Leave It to Beaver
And My Favorite Martian,
Which Echoed from the other room.
I missed an entire generation of TV
Sitting at the vacant table,
In the quiet kitchen, gravy congealing
On the plate, staring at the family cat.
Your Images conjured up from the past become bridges for many, yet unfathomable for those who long for a meal at a table, with tv and brothers in the other room.