dinner ghost

the slippery presence of a child, remains in an unmoving position. a pause, both gapping and emptied over piled years of absence. my disappearance was no mystery; but instead a  golden ticket of goodwill and gratitude, on my mother’s own part. as for the sundays that fell by coincidence, on special occasions; my role was simply to abide, visible in presence, no matter how unwilling in spirit or heart.

soon, although slowly; i am allowing myself to seep out of this unnecessary task. i am beginning to learn, my existence at the dinner table is simply a comfort to the guilt, these others hoard from years of neglect. their hands, flee from sparks; at the possibility of catching fire. allowing myself to gradually relearn the practice of releasing my grip; i latch unto filial responsibilities too fiercly; and let loose, much too seldom.


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