Surviving The Blues

4

I am cooking. I never cook and I can probably count the number of times we've used our stove. We usually eat out. My father brings home his selection of food each night. We also never eat at the dinner table that I vaguely remember walking through an off brand, one chain furniture store and picking out.

I remember my father telling me to pick a number from 1-7  and which ever one I choose would be the table we got. I choose two because great things comes in twos. For instance dad and me, Twix, arms, legs, the left and right hemisphere of our brain or Elmo and his goldfish. We got this regular round red wood table. It came with the same color chairs without any cushioning or major design. My guess is my father made me pick a number so I would feel included. He made sure however no matter which number I choose, we would get the cheapest. Best decision every because we use it like once every few years.

So can I actually cook? Yes. I spent one summer with my aunt on the side of women who shall not be acknowledged side of the family. My aunt doesn't acknowledge her either. Okay, I am getting off track. My dad sent me to my aunt so I could learn from a female figure. He thought it would help. However, all I learnt was I should dress more feminine, how to cook and that I should never be like my mother. My father never made the mistake of sending me back again.

At least I got something out of it. A lot of young girls and boys my age don't know how to cook. It's the growing era of eating out, food delivery services and those home chefs you can DM on Instagram. There's even meal prep programs that package meals for a family to consume a whole week. Who needs to know how to cook when our society conveniently has ways around it?

I rush to set the table. He'll walk through the door right around 7:45pm. I already texted him that I would handle dinner tonight and he didn't respond, but the message came up as read.

I used an old sheet as a table cloth. I cut it to fit and look like one. I actually made an effort to take down real plates, glasses and other utensils . Usually, we eat from plastic items. Yeah, I know bad for the environment, but we reuse them.

So why don't we use our regular China if we reuse disposable ones? I guess it's a cultural thing. That and the fact that our China holds memories. It's not to the point where my father would react erratically, but to the point where eating from it might be uncomfortable for him.

I stand by the door. He's suppose to be here in two minutes. I take a deep breath when I hear the keys fumbling in the lock. It takes some work to actually get them to perform  their assigned task—opening the door.

The door swings inward, the rusted door hinges squeaking as he walks in. "Good evening father, may I take your coat." He eyes me. The face tattoos as clear as day on his face. It's not many and not as visible on his dark skin, but it's there. You see, dad and the other guys in the hood did the whole face tattoo thing before it became the trend we see today. The streets did it way before these kids did. It's just like edges and baby hair. It was popular among Black folks in the 1970s and 90s however, they were criticized and referred as ghetto for them. It was always popular among Black girls and women until 2000s came around. White women and other races became to take on the culture. It then came acceptable because it was wore on White women like Katy Perry or a Kardashian . Just like face tattoos. When White rapers like Post Malone started to take on the style as theirs, it gained more popularity.

"My shits ain't broken." He walks father into our apartment. By his shits, he means hands. He just throws his jacket to the side and I make a mental note to hang it up later. "What's all of this?" After scanning the room, he choose those words as his starter.