Table Terror

I bet God designed me when He misplaced his heavenly etiquette; perhaps he spelt my existence just when he spilt his morning coffee. He perhaps always knew through the master plan that me and table etiquette were poles apart.

 A cloudless evening, I hold my little hand tight in his big, firm, hand. There was something about that hand. Not that it knew mine too well, but it had a certain kindness, certain strength in it. A hand you would never forget the rest of your life even after it grows cold and past with death. I hold it tighter as we near the restaurant we planned to dine. He stares down at my complex stare and signals me to wear my best behavior.

We step inside a grandeur room, I watch forks, spoons and knives return my indifferent stare.

I sit on a chair; swing my little legs back and forth until an old ‘gentleman’ next to me freezes my rhythmic swing with the coldest stare ever.

I promise myself again to be good, to be less a glutton, more of a woman. The old woman on my right tells her spouse, “such a sweet kitty”. I dislike her comment, one I respected the feline more than I did my own breed and second I just did not see myself with whiskers and I was sure that my tail was just rudimentary.

I know he is watching my mind, he was not just one who had fathered me he understood me better than I did myself.

 I hear his quiet instruction, “Hold that fork right”. I spell arrogance as I give him an all-knowing nod.

Then a smug faced waiter brings in the chicken, and all my self-made promises vanish into its aroma. I feel my mouth water, the glutton in me comes alive, and the lady in me dies a premature death.

So the glutton in me devours while he watches the miserable lady in me with an expression of discomfiture.

I still hit at the delicacy with my ill-fated fork, miss my target and I watch with the rest as apiece flies past,

 grazes a pair of old eyes seated to my left.  The old man wipes his eyes and swears something under his breath. I think he termed me a rat and his old wife stared at me as if I was no more “kitty” but “ratty”.

I feel the firm hand give me that usual tap (signaling corporeal futurity) which was most often my dessert.

I rise up, the clue well taken; follow him outside, my heart heavy more with the knowledge of the forsaken chicken than a bruised old eye.

We step outside; my eyes smart with the pain of loss.  He knows the way I handle grief and says, “It is ok. It was just a minor bruise”.

I whimper through unshed tears, “No, my heart hurts for my chicken” He almost guffaws, “you are quite a lady” and I feel him smile down at my chicken grief.

Years down, trying to be woman enough I sit among ‘warrior’ men with their polished shoes, stars stern eyes. I also sit among those indifferent forks, spoons and knives and sometimes the memory of a bruised old eye flashes across. I wonder if I would repeat history and I guess if I do, the ‘rat’ in me will be shot to posterity.

Amidst memory and fear, someone across seems to sense my ways too well. Someone whose eyes hold a similar kindness watches the emptiness on my plate and my anxious etiquette and inches the dishes closer towards my plate. Young, stern eyed but experienced enough to sense the glutton in me and my disastrous struggle to be woman enough, he smiles back at my thankful smile that lasts through most plates.

An old kindness and the new merge to let the glutton in me live its ways.