The Monster at the Table

There is a monster under my kitchen table.  His name is hatred, he sabotages my waistline, inflames my brain, and is a nasty fellow all around.  He shows up at every comfort meal or snack I have.  I’m just finding less and less comfort in food now.  

Coming home from school to fresh baked jumbo raisin cookies, sitting down to warm grilled cheese sandwiches, dipping soft bread into homemade stew, all these memories still live inside of me.  Now I need to focus on other things, like the hand hammered copper sheathed garden box that my mother filled with Little Golden books, I need to remember baking apple slices with my sister on the little table lamp’s light bulb, I need to remember riding on my dad’s shoulders to test the smoke detector before he tucked me in for my nap. I need to remember going shoe shopping at Woolco with my dear brother who persuaded me to pick ‘sensible’ platform shoes instead of the strappy sandals I wanted.  It only makes the memory more dear to think I only wore the platforms once because I was too prone to sprain my ankle.  He did his best to do the good brotherly thing.

Goodbye anger, and goodbye hate, goodbye jealousy and goodbye nasty plate, it was a wild ride and I thank God I dismounted.

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