How many of us spend our lives under the table, afraid to sit up in a chair with the adults? What happens to us? We are not born shadowy creatures, fearful of eye to eye contact. Children face us down, unblinking. When do we begin skulking beneath the light, dodging gum wrappers? I'm down here listening to fragments of conversation, coughing up the dust of timidity. Flatulence is my drumbeat. The aroma of whispered opinions surrounds me. Stomachs growl like evil fairy tale characters.
When everyone has left, I crawl out, let my squinting eyes wander across the steaming battleground of dirty plates and utensils, crumpled napkins, cookie crumbs, half filled seltzer bottles, chocolate covered raisins and spilled coffee.
I curse myself for missing another chance at connection.
I capture the lingering bits of argument still in the air, press them to my ears, eventually carry them back down to my dark space and its dusty echoes. This is my fragmented grasp of the life force above me.
It is so much safer under here. One can learn to adjust. Collecting cigarette butts is just as meaningful as collecting insults. So what if I don't smoke.
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