Plain Potato

Plain Potato

I sit at the dinner table gnawing with hunger,
But not for the meal.
I miss what I had,
I miss the fullness.

Another meal graciously provided is served.
I dole out the plain potatoes,
And all the toppings.

This meal, like most, is a battle.
They don’t like it.
They don’t want it.

If I’m honest,
I also don’t like it.
I don’t want any of it.

Meal times now feel fragmented,
Disconnected.
Maybe I’m the problem,
And disengaged.

We eat to move on but we’re rarely all together.
The empty seats between two meal shifts remind me of the seat that now sits vacant.

What once felt so warm and joyful
Now feels so cold and mechanical.
We don’t eat to come together anymore,
To pause and enjoy.
I miss that and grieve the loss of that tonight.

But I have to eat something
And I need to move along.
So I choke down the plain potato
And taste what life is now like.

(This was written Tuesday night, May 2nd (day 138) between meal shifts with the boys. This is not to complain about the Meal Train and all of the gracious provision of meals over the years. They have made such a significant difference for us and for me. Sitting at dinner Tuesday night I was depleted and felt the heaviness of my new reality and responsibility of it all. And the poor potato and a specific meal became a metaphor for an expression of grief in that moment. I want to offer my apologies to the plain potato.

For whatever it’s worth, I like potatoes).