"Dinner Time" -Jesse Pietro

The rays of the setting sun navigate the shield offered by the window pane. Directly in front of me it hangs, exposing a tree laden view of the world beyond my cozy cave. With an open book clutched in my hands, a narrow, twin sized bed supports me and my shoulder bag of bricks. Light pierces through the window's exposed glass, striking my unadjusted pupils. With a grimace, I glance away. I let my eyes wander, searching for nothing in particular, but rather just needing a rest. They flit to the hand-me-down cherry-wood dresser. From there they wander to the roaring white tiger perched on its top, then to the howling wolf that’s taken residence upon my bleak wall. They desire to comprehend nothing; just wandering.

A steady tick, tock, breaches my adventure clogged brain, sparking a sudden curiosity. It is immediately followed by a wave of apprehension. Purposefully, my eyes search out my lonely avalanche clock restrained to the wall on my right. I strain to read it; 6:54. Dinner, which usually comes prompt at 7, is drawing near. Dread swims in apprehension's wave, carried by the uncomfortable tension that comes at the table. Our small house and thin walls can't confine the elements of strife. Selfish motives drive us to turn against one another. Our vehement shouts pierce the ears of the others, alerting them to the altercation at hand. Sorry, it seems, is an exiled expression. Pride has taken care of that. The results of these elements are never more apparent than when we gather at the table. Eyes stay diverted between disputers, and anger is always an underlying current. It is felt by all, causing a glum shadow to encompass each member of the house. But the shadow entrapts each of us, stalking our hollow wanderings throughout the house beyond the table.

I set the book aside; my lead laden arms no longer have the strength to uphold it. Its exposed covers and protruding spine gaze at me from their resting place. To my eyes it appears as an eagle, flying in the midst of a crinkled, unkempt comforter. The title running down its spine gazes at me, almost as if crying out for me to climb aboard its wings; to re-join it as it soars above the pillow-tops and crinkles in complete freedom. My heart yearns to do so; the black and white letter filled pages offer an escape, for in these faraway places of magic and adventure, my vulnerable heart finds peace. It is a sanctuary, sheltering me from the ruckus and conflict of a divided home. With 5 siblings, including me, and disputing parents, we swarm the house like locusts, leaving only chaos and stress in our tracks.

Voices, raised in anger and contempt, was oft to be heard like a whirlwind screeching throughout the halls. In the bible it says that Jesus will divide families with a sword. I don't know why he chose mine, but his sword is the arguing words slashing division in our home. Siblings turn against siblings, and mother against father, each in a rage. Just last night voices of dispute could be heard from my parents bedroom. They tried to keep it shushed, but in the silence of the night even an angry whisper can traverse long distances. I tried to block it out, but even an adventure story wasn't strong enough to contain my dammed evesdropping ears.

And so, consumed was my house, by animosity, tension, separation and solitude. Love, though immeasurably great, has become but a whisper on the wind; clouded by the strife consuming our home. It is too much for this tender hearted ginger to endure, so books have become my fortress. But I shall have to leave this shelter, spread-eagled upon my bed, unable to return until after the ensuing dinner.

I draw my self back from the dark reflections of my heart. There's no need to reflect on past fights when the chances are likely another shall take place tonight. Resignation sets in; penetrating the depths of my core. Time to get up, I tell myself. Dinner is at hand.

As if on cue, “Dinner time!!” My mom’s voice echoes through the house, calling us all to the table. I heave myself from the bed, finding unsteady legs as little support. Blood rushes to my brain, causing my room to revolve in a nauseating manner. Phewww... head rush... I close my eyes and give my head a gentle shake. When my eyes reopen the world is settled where it ought to be. Reaching my hand toward the door knob, I grasp it and pause. A heavy sigh escapes before I yank sharply on my impossible-to-open door.

A rush of delicious smelling odors bombards my nose as I stagger out of my room. I recognize it immediately. Mom’s made Green chili!! My absolute favorite!! For though the most strenuous of her meals, it was also the most delicious as well. Hope is ignited. For how could anyone even think to be in contention with such a delicous meal to be devoured.

Now, the ever present love, that was once a whisper on the wind, is made clear as day. Like the sunlight that pierced my eye, it pierces my heart. This time gleaning not a grimace but a smile, giving my eyes clear direction; I am driven to where my mother’s love was poured out as she worked tirelessly for hours on end above the flaming stove. Containing no care for her self, or the sweat dripping from her brow, she slaved. For what mattered most was uniting this divided family. Even if it was just for a night, I know it would be worth it for her, worth it for all, because tonight, the dinner table would be a sanctuary of its own kind. One too, that would envelop us in peace. Like the eagle soaring above the crinkles on my bed, we too, would to soar above the strife and contempt so that we may enjoy this meal as a family in unison.

Upon entering the kitchen I am staggered to find that unity had already appeared this night; next to my mom slaved my dad. Hungrily I glance around; a variety of fresh cut vegetables arranges our table with seven places set, two already filled by my ravenous older brothers. And on the stove next to my mom’s pot of green chili perches a skillet. Beans. But not just any beans. My dad’s beans. Ones that were slow cooked to perfection, relentlessly mashed only to be thrown in to a skillet and refried to absolute perfection. Burritos were to be consumed, and they couldn’t have come at a more dire time.

Grinning ear to ear, seven faces sit at our table to have dinner. My father says grace as we all close our eyes. Amen, the cue to dig in. There is no time for words of strife, or in fact any words at all. Eagernes and joy fills us each, as, in unison, seven forks deliver a bit of the tirelessly prepared, mouthwateringly delicious meal. Each bite pushes out the dividing contempt for one another, replacing it with loving content of being together as a family. And as we consume this food, a single eagle swoops the 7 of us up. Our destination tonight is not a home destroyed by the whirlwind of dispute. Instead it is a sanctuary of peace found in the home-cooked, love-filled, inner layers of a smothered green chili bean burrito.