Dinnertime at Hope Renfrew

“Dinner is ready!”
Ready, finally.
She’s finally ready to open and share her life with us.
It’s taken some time, but the long-awaited bell has now chimed.
After years of preparation,
Anticipate. (Her story, that is, not dinner.)

“Please pass me the salt.”
The shaker is passed.
She shakes as she passes on to another grave tale of woe.
Didn’t know that much sorrow was possible for one to take.
Without shrivelling like a slug.
Way, way, too much. (Her sorrow, that is, not the salt)

“More juice for you, Grace?”
Carefully, I pour.
She pours out, lavishly, generously, easily, her heart
Her heart stretches and holds more than her glass would ever want to.
Both transparent for the moment
Horrible stuff. (Her anguish, that is, not the juice)

“Ice cream for dessert.”
Mmm, such soft sweetness.
She’s always so sweetly determined to be softly spoken
Despite the trauma that she experienced back when she was—
Her affect is like a raw child.
Delectable. (The ice cream, that is, not her past)

“I’ll wash, and you dry.”
Ew. Dirty dishes.
She feels dirty; everyone she knew used to tell her she was.
We can scrape and scrub and rinse until the heavy job is done.
As long as it will have to take.
Clean and perfect. (The dishes, that is, and the girl.)

Anticipate. Way, way too much. Horrible stuff. Delectable. Clean and perfect.
Her story, that is, not dinner.
Her sorrow, that is, not the salt.
Her anguish, that is, not the juice.
The ice cream, that is, not the past.
The dishes.

The girl.