Bowl of Truth

I don't recollect exactly what took place at the dinner table that evening. Only that we were all there. My older brother, my two younger sisters and my youngest brother. Mom and Dad were there, too, of course. We took family dinner together very seriously. All were expected to be there. More often than not, we were served chicken. I avoid chicken when possible to this day.

What we had for dinner that night was far from the point. We all had a bowl full of truth that night, and the after taste is still in my mouth, all these years later. Truth, coming from the right server, may taste amazing, but my Father was no matradee. 

He was, and still is, an excellent chef, but when it came to words he couldn't churn up a sentence for days. Although he could drop mid sentence at night and pick it right up the next morning and expect everyone to know precisely what he was talking about. If only I could have followed that train of thought somehow, and bottled it up. Would it make sense to me somehow? Wisdom or not? I cannot say, for I did not choose to go that way. If I had, perhaps I'd understand.

But I had another pair of shoes to fill in my life, and I knew they weren't his.