You are on page 1of 1

To Go by Kirk Shimano There is barely enough room on the table for our plates.

We phoned the regular place but forgot that our regular order had changed. How can we eat without the sickening sight of Grandpa smothering his rice in Heinze ketchup? There is a distinct absence of misinformation in the dinner conversation. Grandpa’s hearing aide rests forever in a quiet drawer, but Grandma still repeats all the words loudly, hoping. The chile singes the tastebuds but it lacks flavor, or texture, or happiness, or something. We put the extra chorizo in a doggie bag and place it, carefully, on the obutsudan hoping that the ants won’t get to it, trying to remember how Grandpa would take a corn tortilla and scoop up the last of refried bean, consuming the final morsels of the meal and leaving no regrets.