There Ain’t No Cure For The Suppertime Blues


A family that eats together, talks together. Conversely, a family that talks together does not necessarily listen. Like when dad comes home wasted and you know mom’s pissed, all livid and venomous, and grandma’s smiling, always smiling, pretending there’s nothing wrong. She is the great enabler. All the while, you’re just a kid, so the adults think you’re so stupid.

Papa Bookman grunted as he stabbed the piece of pork chop with a slightly bent fork, and put it in his gullet, followed by a healthy handful of mashed potatoes. It is surprising that he managed to yet say, “Where is Heather?”

Marigold, the eldest, knew where her youngest sister was, but she did not hear the question. Truth be told, even if she had heard it, the non-response would have been the same. She was adrift in her sumptuous meal. She sounded like an idling bulldozer, an omnipresence of humming, breathing only through her nose. She was also drooling hard; there was a glistening flow of spittle from her lip to the table like the just recent melding of stalactite and stalagmite.

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