The Meal Suzanne E. Berger (1944- ) They have washed their faces until they are pale, their homework is beautifully complete. They wait for the adults to lean towards each other. The hands of the children are oval and smooth as pine-nuts. The girls have braided and rebraided their hair, and tied ribbons without a single mistakes. The boy has put away his coiun collection. They are waiting for the mother to straighten her lipstick, and for the father to speak. They gather around the table, carefully as constellations waiting to be named. Their minds shift and ready, like dunes. It is so quiet, all waiting stars and dunes. Their forks move across their plates without scraping, they wait for the milk and the gravy at the table with its forgotten spices. They are waiting for a happiness to life their eyes, like sudden light flaring in the trees outside. The white miles of the meal continue, the figures still travel across a screen: the father carving the Sunday roast, her mouth uneven as a torn hibiscus, their braids still gleaming in the silence. --

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