Joelene
across the dinner table

So it was confirmed.

Uncle Eric was no Uncle.

He was Papaw's friend.

They went to the same high school

where they wore these weird caps

and ugly-coloured Khaki.

They walked with books in their hands,

and wore pin-up shoes.

Then they went to the same overseas farm.

Picking tomatoes, and oranges,

and bell peppers for Canadian money.

Eric lived somewhere I can’t remember.

But there was a war happening in his country.

It was bad there.

That’s why he was here.

We watched some Tv after the game.

One of those black and white movies,

because my nurtures couldn’t pay for the cable.

Some men in pants and caps

and polo shirts came to cut it off.

Papaw belched more than once

as he sucked a dried-out orange,

disturbing Mamaw.

And each time, Eric would swing me

this face as if to say:

"we the only two people sane here, eh?"

And I would smile secretly.

I never missed when he stared at

my pale legs stretching from under

my washed-out nightie.

Then it was dinner time.

We all sat around the table to eat.

Mamaw sang one of her prayer refrains,

spat some words in a language I couldn’t understand,

wished for us to be washed in the blood of the lamb.

And I was being washed in two, sea-green eyes.

Eric sat on the other end,

right in front of me.

And boy, was he staring.

We ate and drank,

and I fed my skinny dog

mackerel from my plate.

And Eric leaned over and petted his head,

and I got heart in my eyes.

He liked dogs too; perfect.

Then it was time to wash the dishes.

And Mamaw practically forced me.

I hate washing the plates.

But boy did I love it when Eric said:

“I’ll help her.”

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