1 one–sunday plates

I guess Sundays were for nice things, maybe to me.

The scent of my momma's best dishes, my sister's sweet perfume, and the slight touch of dust–and maybe old wood–held on to the slightly stuffy smell I couldn't get rid of, just like that of butter and rosemary, maybe even the slight stench of what I guessed to be almonds, they all mingled together nicely.

I guess, my tongue had gotten used to the useless calories I sort of had a tendency of stuffing my mouth with, nothing on that table came out of some packet I could peel off–and throw away–and nothing on that table came out of a tray, or needed to be dumped in the microwave.

My momma had cooked most of the food that decorated the table and currently, she sat at the crown of that very table with her almond toned skin practically shinning as a golden light tore into our dining room and soaked most of the table in a shy hue of burnt yellow and gold, softly tinging her eyes an almost hypnotic tinge of brown, matching her hair.

My mother carried herself along with the conversation I could only gather snippets of, easily.

I was really of no use to it, I barely could get myself to handle the food in front of me, there was going to be no reason for me to try and part the lips which felt practically stitched together–I chose to just remain quiet. I just focused on my mother who looked so beautiful–like a warm day of spring–bathed in a soft tinge of rust orange as the sunlight ate away at our table.

My older sister–whose stylishly long bob shone in the light–sat to her left, waving her fork around as she added to the conversation, her words barely registering to me, and right across me, eating away at her food, was my other sister and she seemed to be paying better attention than I could even try to as she nodded, happily and said some words–adding to whatever was the topic–right before she returned to her food, easily.

I doubted if I could even catch up to their words, even if I tried.

I just sat there, twisting my fork around my plate, trying to act like I was interested in having whatever was on my plate–and clinging to my nostrils stubbornly–like the chicken, and it felt uncomfortably dry in my uncomfortable mouth as its flavors were of no use as I had sucked the juice right out of the piece of chicken glued to the roof of my mouth

The nice table had everything except my full participation, of course, I just sat there quietly, having nothing to add to whatever they were talking about. Or what the conversation had evolved to, and it felt so comfortable to not utter anything.

It wasn't as if I had anything to add either.

From where I was sitting, barely touching my food, I could see the living room, and it was just over the other side of the hallway, or at least where the archway and wall allowed my eyes to travel to.

I guess I could see the wall just opposite the doorway, right where the flat-screen TV was, and that handmade shelf on the corner, and just before the back of the couch–where my sweater rested–was a bunch of books that were probably the only stuff that could collect dust in my momma's house. And just opposite the dining table, upon the wall, was a photo of our daddy–the happiest I had ever seen of the man–and just above his dimpled happy smile was a picture of me and my sisters, smaller, and probably the happiest I had ever seen of myself, or maybe it was just my eyes.

I couldn't help but torture myself as the thought of my wedding photos climbed to the top of my head, images of my grinning and smiling made their way in, and so did my wedding dress that which I sort of had stashed away in my closet–it nibbled at my appetite.

I found myself pushing my plate of food–which was sort of unappetizing before my eyes–away and without thinking much of it, I quickly regretted it. I attempted my best to pull apart the deep frown that had been sewn unto my round lips ever since–not that it mattered because I had already gained myself all three sets of eyes.

I suddenly wished that I had shoved forks full of food into my mouth when I had the chance to, but it was, however, too late for me–I had my mother's eyes on me.

"Gracie? Aren't you hungry?" my mother frowned, her voice falling tenderly in a soft yet sultry lull as her brown eyes narrowed.

"My shifts have been kinda hectic lately, so. . . I've not been sleeping much. It messes with my appetite," I said, my hands intertwined together before me–on that table–forcefully, pulling a smile right up my slightly chubby yet oval face that was more of my mother than my chin, which was decorated, slightly, by that cleft I had inherited from my father.

I didn't know what the actual final product resembled, but still, I held it there in place–I smiled, for them.

"That's the more reason to eat something, maybe a bite at least," she said, narrowing her big eyes at me and making it so hard for me to just try and hold on to my smile, which I had attempted to shove against my stiff face at some point.

"Okay," I tried.

Her shiny fork met the table, gently, and she shoved away her almost empty ceramic plate from before herself, almost like she was dismissing the delicious food–calling an end to our meal.

"Maybe. . .some dessert would be. . nice," I said, my voice almost holding a high-pitched edge as my throat dried and my palms practically drowned in warm sweat.

It was better than a stiff table.