Echoes at the End of the Table

When I was younger, I used to love the idea of family dinners - the kind you see in movies. Everyone gathered around the table, passing food, sharing stories, laughing at things that probably weren't even funny.
There was something comforting about it, something that said "we're okay".

But that's not how meals looks like in my house. The idea of eating together isn't as simple as it appears in my house.

My dad works far away. If we're lucky we see him once a month. But when he does come home, there's a certain warmth in the house that doesn't need to be explained- it just is. But most days, it's just the rest of us. And even then, not always together

Breakfast happens early. My mom and siblings eat before the day really starts, before I even open my eyes. By the time I shuffle into the kitchen, the kettle's gone quiet and the plates are already in the sink. Still, I find little signs that I was thought of - bread wrapped in a napkin, eggs kept warm, a note from my mom or siblings' slanted handwriting reminding me not to skip something that day. Love speaks quietly in our house. You have to listen for it.

Dinner, too, is scattered. I come home late from work. Most times, the house is already winding down. My siblings have eaten, and my mom is resting, and I sit at the table alone. It's quiet, but not empty. The food is always there - warm, covered, waiting. And in that waiting, there's a kind of tenderness that's hard to put into words.

Sometimes my siblings don't feel like eating at the moment. So the idea of eating together slips away without much fuss. The table stays untouched. No stories are exchanged. No laughter is passed like salt and pepper. But still, we exist around each other, doing our best, loving in ways we know how.

We do come together on special days - birthdays, holidays, the rare weekends when my dad is home. On those days, the house feels full again. Not just with people, but with something heavier and softer - belonging. And in those moments, I see what could've been, and I cherish what is.

I used to think love had to be loud and obvious. That families had to gather daily around steaming dishes and say things like "How was your day?" out loud. But now, I think love can be quiet. Sometimes it's a plate left in the warmer. A call from my dad that lasts three minutes but reminds me I'm on his mind. A half-slice of bread someone left behind because they thought I might want it.

So no, my family don't follow the tradition like people used to. But maybe one day, when life slows down a bit, we'll have more meals together. More laughter spilling over plates. More shared moments, not just reheated meals.

We don't always meet at the table. But we still meet in other ways - in thought, in care, in small, invisible offerings.

Image is mine

Posted Using INLEO