Harvest At The Table

I gather this,

a momentary yield.

The house is quiet again.

Last week's argument deflated in charged air,

But ten years’ impact lingers in a corner.

The living room is a wild forest.

No one sits there long enough to forage it.

We starve,

and eat the false gardens planted in the safety of our bedrooms.

But then,

as if by miracle,

manna falls from above.

It reaches barren soils;

Their aching had nowhere to go,

but time graced them with edible shrubs.

A lively sound cuts through the air like a knife,

It’s October 13th, 2019:

I lay down my gardening book,

My brother is turning a new page.

It’s his 24th birthday.

He pretends to forget because he

threatened to slaughter us while back.

We found a reason to remember,

because he is yet to live up to that.

My mother begins to chop meat,

the pot is boiling with water,

manna, and shrubs sizzling in the pan.

Their scent is potent,

their cells redolent,

they permeate every blocked door,

absent noses flaring up,

dry mouths panting with saliva,

broken hearts parting a way to feed love where it lacks.

I didn’t bring a basket.

I had no flowers to offer as a gift.

My father calls out my name,

his quiet plea asks me to harvest anything at the table.

A chocolate cake waits at the side,

store-based,

No candles.

No balloons.

My father says, “Let's eat together.”

Together sounds foreign in the atmosphere,

We haven’t done it for so long,

but the threads of our blood aren’t familiar with time.

We sit,

We eat.

My mother suddenly engages, “I cooked with the spirit of God today.”

My brother laughs,

It's horrid,

and I make fun of it.

We might all be devils unknowingly,

counting the sins we have committed

in hushed prayers.

Then I choke on my water mid-laughter.

“Ah, drink slowly!”

My mother says,

my father’s forehead drips sweat from the spice.

He can’t handle the heat as he laughs.

“Dad, you’re the one who should be choking on water.”

As if harshness is all we know,

perversely a comfort,

in a reframed light.

I hear a different sound in the house,

joyful bickering,

sweeter tears.

the same ghosts haunting us,

turning into source material for humor.

God’s spirit goes to our stomachs.

We’ll sleep better tonight after my brother cuts the cake.

The chaos and silence were a foul illusion.

I wish that were the case.

But it’s not my birthday,

Still,

I’m very happy,

and I miss the memory while it's happening.

I store it in my gardening book like a seed against the cold.

I believe it will keep me warm

through the next storm.

I’m certain there will be another one.

For now,

the floods are absorbed by the walls,

the cracks between them watch,

sparing us a moment,

to end a long-term drought,

with a momentary harvest like this.