i’ve spent so much time at this kitchen table.

a lot of people do-
the kitchen is the center of the house,
the place where all the best times are shared;
the laughs, the memories,
the focus of our lives.

but not me.

i’ve sat in front of this slab of wood
for years-
mouth turning up in a curl at
plates of uneaten food,
alone.

hours. hours. hours.
passing.

maria says it’s life wasted
at this kitchen table, and
maybe it is-
just me and the food in another battle;
spending our days fighting to the death.

as a picky child,
“mommypleasedon’tmakemeeat”, and
eleven years old, bowls of carrots and olives and
pushing away, refusing all else; only
small meals in high school and
“I’MNOT HUNGRY” always.

sitting for as long as it takes until
i’d be allowed to leave the kitchen table without
eating.

just as the salt and pepper shakers, napkins,
sugar bowl, yesterday’s mail, and
vase of dying flowers-
this kitchen table is my place in this world.