LaMeta

The clinking of a spoon hit a plate repeatedly. In a way it echoed. He was eating alone, again. I hardly sat at the table. Relying on fruit that would leave crumbs in my sheets, then thrown to the floor when I felt them stick to my skin as I tried to sleep. He never asked why I didn’t share meals.

This was my father, yet too often felt like a stranger.

Home sometimes didn’t feel like home, so I would run away, finding comfort at home only when I slept, which wasn’t much.  Father didn’t have a job. Not one I saw anyways. Even stranger, I never knew how there was always food, water, heat, and time. Funny though, I was always told you couldn’t buy that.

I guess that’s how it works.

No one notices what they receive until it’s time to give back. I know I couldn’t give any of it back, except maybe for time. My heart tightened at the thought of walking to the kitchen and seeing only one taken chair. I took one, four, twenty-two steps.

“Pappa…” He didn’t even look up but I saw His smile. Then I saw. I saw His pierced hands. Slowly pouring water into the cup I always took for granted. It was for the first time I realized the kitchen smelled like roses. The first time I saw there was no roof. Yet the rain that poured down did not meet my skin.