The writers group I belong to suggested we write something inspired by the familiar life around the kitchen table. I mused on that a while, and realised that after my family emigrated from Denmark to colonial Rhodesia we didn’t really have a kitchen table we could sit around…. that lead to further musings and memories and the following prose poem.
.
Kitchen table
.
I left the kitchen table when I was only seven years old
The plastic table cloth was rolled up one last time, and Mother served no more pancakes
The equality of the Nordic kitchen was replaced by a short dark man called Adam
who cooked meals for our family and served platters and dishes at a long dining table
.
People came to the dining room, hands behind their backs, to speak to my father
There were no more farmhands teasing sleepy children over late eggy breakfasts
Our father grew distant at the far end of the table and we kept stories at our end
We learned to eat baked beans and bacon, and then it was time for boarding school
.
.
Hyggeligt,
Og den tabte barndom står jo altid i et specielt skær.
Den lange række af formødre og forfædre kan jo nok mane til eftertanke, og jo ældre man bliver, des mere tænker man på dem og ens barndom.
Læser lige nu Herbjørg Wasmo: Hundrede år.
En bog der går fire generationer tilbage i hendes eget liv, – spændende læsning.
VH Uffe
Tak Uffe for dine komenta, ens barndom, og for den sag, liv, kan man jo blive ved med at fortolke…
Thanks for your comments, sisi’s. Interesting to think how the change impacted on all our lives…
and pronutro!
Ah it was a great childhood all the same!
Vores opstilling evne var stor…det er vel det man overlever på.