table for one
You wait patiently for the bread,
neatly buttered with the that warm yellow skirt you used to always wear
and the rain of compliments that came along with it
drenching you in a familiar pride -
one that you hoped you could hold on to forever
but you grew out of, like your favorite pair of shoes.
You order your usual coffee,
lightly sweetened with the faint memories
of your favorite dollhouse
and all the times you spent fighting with your sister
over who gets to play with it first.
The high-pitched voices ring through the foam
that settles on your mug,
frothing up on your upper lip
as it folds into a reminiscent smile.
You let the warm flavors simmer,
let nostalgia pool in the bottom of your cup.
You glance down at the menu -
an array of emotions waiting.
Pick just enough to satiate you,
not so much that you’re too full,
for what comes next.
The summer fettuccine.
the brown butter-y morning of your birthday,
sweet tomatoes carrying the memory
of unwrapping your gifts -
all wrapped again in salted pasta and
topped with the sourness of the night,
the one that somehow left you empty
Al dente, it says.
Biscuits made in-house.
Kneaded tight with the memories from school,
Cooked in the tart buttermilk:
early mornings, petty arguments,
last-minute homework.
Balanced with granulated sugar:
lunch table laughter,
long walks home,
honey-warm conversations
still warm when they reach your table,
crumbling at the edges,
leaving only bits
of what you thought you’d always have.
Triple chocolate cake.
The dark cocoa mixed in with late-night conversations
in your childhood bedroom,
frosted thick with secrets
shared in elaborate bed forts.
Each layer separated
with the preserves of your first crushes,
first heartbreaks, first everything.
The fork cuts through too easily,
the way time cuts through moments
you thought you’d frozen forever.
House salad.
Crisp greens of ordinary tuesdays,
tossed with the vinaigrette of routine -
sharp, tangy, carrying the aftertaste
of everything you took for granted.
Olives burst with the smalls joy
you forgot to notice,
cucumber slices cool as the certainty
you once trusted
That everything
would always be exactly like this.
Your fingers trace each dish,
as if just a simple touch
could bring you back to the way it used to be,
to the people who once surrounded you,
to the conversations
that can’t happen anymore.
The check comes.
You fold the napkin,
leave it beside the empty plates.