Sunday, November 18, 2012

The Harvest Supper

We had grand feasts back home. I lose track of the days here, but the weather feels about right. About this time every year the farmers would make their harvest in Amphitrite. Bundles upon bundles of food were collected. The city would save food for the winter. And then there was the ration sent across the prairies to Government Island. But after all was divided, there was always extra for a feast.

Atlas was good at nothing else, no special trade or reason to boast. But they knew how to celebrate. I remember that. The Harvest Supper was the one event my father would take me to. I would walk in between them, one hand clasped with my dad and one with my mom. There was a bounce to their steps. I remember the laughter. People wouldn’t look at me funny. They wouldn’t whisper. One year, a young man gave me a cloth bunny he had won at some armature archery competition. It was stuffed with feathers, buttons for eyes. I held it tight, grinning the entire night.

Torches lined the sidewalks, lighting the streets. The townspeople gathered so many tables, lining them down the street. One big table, multicolored with tablecloths pulled from storage, saved for this gathering. The women scattered fall leaves across the surface and the best plates were dug out of boxes. The men had spent the previous weekend hunting game. Then, all day, the women gathered and cooked. My mom would always help them make the side dishes and bread. I knead some dough, too. They said I was a good kitchen helper. The men swapped stories from the year. The children played hide-and-go-seek. On the windy years, they flew kites.

Then, as Helios began to set, the food sat steaming on the tabletops. Everyone stood around, hand in hand, thanking Clieto for her good graces on that year’s harvest. Then we ate and ate and ate. I used to think I had to eat the most on that night, like it would help hold me in the dead of winter when rations were small. I have since learned the stupidity of such a thought. I loved those days, when rivalries were forgotten and the people gathered.

We didn’t go last year. My father said something about the town requesting our absence. I think he meant my absence. He tried to recreate the gathering at our house, making a small meal for us. But it wasn’t the same. He tried, but it just didn’t feel right. They died four months later…in a fire. The town didn’t set it, but they might as well have. We should have gone to the dinner. We shouldn’t have let them exclude us, made us exiles. We should have remained a part of the city. Things might have been different then.

Captain served a game turkey for dinner tonight. I remembered the harvest. I remembered when my family was alive. And then I left for my room and cried.

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