It was nice, the Saturday Tea

It was nice
The Saturday tea.
Family sitting around the living room
Scraps of greasy newspaper balanced on our knee
Last week’s news saturated in chip fat
This week’s wellbeing, the cholesterol it’s enemy.
Scraps of batter, vinegar, swimming in a sea of mushy pea
A battered sausage promising dancing tastebuds
A haddock resplendent in its crispy, greasy coat
Chips golden like they’d been deep fried by the sun
Cuisine like nirvana, sliding deliciously down my nostalgic throat.

And it was nice
Nice, the Saturday tea
When the adults spoke in voices joyous and
Pretended they were ok with the world
And acted like the miseries of life didn’t start with me
That I wasn’t a pain, a burden, an inconvenience
That if it wasn’t for my being alive they would be free.
The day when people smiled and a glimpse of civility I could see.

As my fingers squelched through greasy pickings
A sensory challenge, but I could bear the feeling
Of the slimy, oily potato, hot and dripping with lard
I basked in the feeling of peace that the rustling newspapers
Might bring messages about my emotional healing.
For Sunday to Monday the grown-ups my sanity were stealing
My little sanguine heart and my quaking mind were reeling
With fear.

But it was nice,
The Saturday tea
When the air was pink with harmony
And the words were smooth with happy vibes
Pulsing through the atmosphere, the chips and fish the smooth over bribes
And the smiles were painted and the laughs were dubbed
And the falsity washed over the truth like the shifting tides.
And the walls were witness to the violence
That on the days when the chips didn’t bear witness to the cruel divides
Of a child distraught.

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
When the fish didn’t swim in the Atlantic Ocean
But sacrificed their lives to decorate our plate
When the sausage paid homage to the pig it once was
When the food on our platter was bloody first rate
When the child and the adult spoke in civilized phrases
When the child wasn’t bullied by an adult irate.
And the child pretended happy because she couldn’t create
Her safe place

But it was nice
The Saturday tea
The smiles, the laughs, the faux safety
The grease, the Tizer, the chips on your knee
The magic of illusion, the wish to be free
Yes it was nice.
It was a haven
The Saturday tea.

© Sarah Drury 2019

Published by Sarah Drury

Poet, Mother and general crazy person. Literally.

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