Five Minute Friday: Roots

The tattered part of the tablecloth hangs down in my lap, the frayed edges grazing my thighs. The hardwood is cold against my bare feet; the tough soles haven't seen shoes for weeks. My pruney fingers from a day spent soaking in the Atlantic salt reach across my father's plate piled high with his father's best attempt at copying his mother's famous cornbread and string beans, to grab the salt shaker my sister has been keeping to herself. The soggy snout of a dog tickles over my toes searching for a lost crumb or two. I kick it away only to see my grandmother pinch off a bit of her biscuit and lean over the side of her chair. When her hand comes back, it is empty and the sound of sloppy licks echoes under the table. Voices dripping with the sweetness of warm molasses and the bite of a backyard still collide, fighting for the pedestal in the tiny room. A bowl is passed to me from the left and my hands close around a large, red potato my grandfather has brought from the farm. I eye the seven swollen roots that have brought my family together for the night.

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