the writtings on the wall
Quiet kitchen, no just quiet voices. None. Clanging pots
and pans, slamming refrigerator doors. Impatient sighs from
angry impatient parents. Hard metal forks dive into
porcelain plates. Still no voices. Darting eyes flash from
mortal to mortal, the silence is slicing. Angry
accelerative noses huff. My back tenses up. My arms
stiffen, my small diligent fingers coil around the utensil.
I keep my eyes on my plate. A demanding request from a five
year old, I jump to deliver. Accidental bumping into the
impatient parents. Gritted teeth. I lower my eye-brows, I
didnt mean to, I think. Under-the-breath mumbles. My feet
swiftly return the jittery cup of orange juice to the
unstable five year old. A clash to the table, an oh so soft
sound, enlarged by the silence. I was annoyed. I
perambulate to my wooden-wicker chair. It squeaks as it is
pulled out from the intimidating wooden table. Eight eyes
dash to mine. Instantly my eyes meet my plate, once again.
Crash. White shirt, gone orange. An ear-piercing screech is
emitted. A matted down T-shirt is stuck to the five year
old. Fragments of the glass cup decorates the tiled floor.
The glass catches the ceiling lights, reflecting blues,
violets, and greens onto the walls. What a phenomenal
scene. Her eyes squint shut. Her mouth stands open. Hands
transfixing onto her greasy oiled hair. Phenomenal. I laugh
underneath the make-shift angry face. My back relaxes. My
arms unstrain. My fingers release the utensil.Tensoin. My
family eating dinner. Tension. Finally unimprisoned.