by Heather J. Davis
I remember dinner being ready. Barbequed chicken. My whole family was over, and as the plates were being passed out I was placed across the table from him. He smiled at me, and I almost threw up. Under the tablecloth, I folded my hands in my lap and dug my chipped, baby pink nails into my skin. It felt familiar -- skin and nails and all -- in a way it really shouldn't to a ten year old girl.
I remembered the campsite where I'd been half asleep in a brown pup-tent.
They fixed my plate for me that night. The chicken was on the left above the corn, near the rice. It all started to blur together from the pools forming in my eyes. My lower lip started quivering, so I bit it, and I shut my eyes while they prayed and blessed the meal, the night, and our family.
I felt the ground underneath the tent's vinyl floor slowly feel more and more real. It was slow but incomprehensible -- all of it. His sweat was on MY back. His skin in my hands. Tears and sweat searing my eyes. While all the time I couldn't say a word. The other kids were asleep.
I'd wake the other kids.
My grandma said the last "amen," and they handed me a yellow napkin and a plastic fork and a yellow and orange dixie cup of Kool-Aid.
Biting my lip and crying on the tent floor, I felt like the sun should've come out any second --until it was all over, and he was gone, and I curled myself shivering, closing my eyes for what seemed like forever.
Quietly, the tears spilled down my face, and I cried into my lap and the Kool-Aid until they finally sent their "tired little girl" to her room.
I can't wake the other kids.
"Just let her sleep. She's probably tired."
What do you think?
[hairy legs] [home cooked meal] [in your hands] [all night]