When I was a kid, my mother never ate with us. She waited until we left the table to pick from our plates with her fingers. Eating was just another chore. At ninety-three, she takes her time, lifts one leaf of salad to her mouth, and tells me to slow down, that I eat like I have a gun to my head. The waiter arrives with dessert: carrot cake for her, custard for me. I take a bite and go to the bathroom. When I return, her plate is clean and she’s scraping out the last spoonful of my custard.
Leo MacLeod is a storyteller, musician and author of two professional development books. His most recent creative nonfiction essay appears in The Maine Review.