The Fate of my Plate
I sit on the metal stool, legs dangling, hands fidgeting, throat tightening. I glare at my plate. I feel the burn of my mom's eyes fixed on me, I feel my friend's confused expression awaiting answers. I glare at my plate, the yellow mush glares back at me. The rubbery whites sit there in ominous wait. I look at my mother, helplessness in my eyes, pleading for mercy, but none is given. I look at my friend, embarrassment on my face, waiting for a response, but none is given. I look at my plate, fear in my gut, praying it will disappear, but there it stays. I can't bring myself to move toward the daunting pile of misery. As each moment passes, I feel pressure rising up inside me. The clock ticks. My mom sighs. My friend coughs. I wait.
The walls are closing in, my world becomes my plate and me. I stare at the gelatinous substance, willing it to disappear, but it does not. I know I must face my opponent, the time has come. My trembling hand reaches out to grasp my fork, the cold metal on my skin and the weight of the weapon in my hand reminds me of my looming fate. As the fork inches closer to the plate my anxiety rises, the slimy revolting taste already engraved in my brain. The fork nears, my eyes fly shut to black out the scene, my body tenses, my heart thumps, I wince at the sudden impact, my reflexes push the food back out. My mom looks at me, disappointed, I look at her powerless to my bodily reaction. “Please” I beg her, “I'm not making this up, I think I'm going to throw up.” But she won't budge, I have to finish my plate if I want to leave the table, and my friend has to wait with me. So there we sit, on the metal stools, legs dangling, waiting for me to eat.
Time passes. Seconds, minutes, hours, years. Now I'm a little bit older, a little bit braver, and a little bit wiser. My matured perspective lets in new experiences, textures, and flavors. Although my little fist used to hold tight to my fork and opinions with stubbornness, I have grown to loosen my grip and embrace the freeing beauty of change. The yellow mush, the rubbery white, they don't look so unnerving anymore. I sit on a metal stool, feet touching the floor, hands clasped, mouth opening. The deliciously salty taste of eggs in my mouth, my plate looks up at me, empty and clean.