My mom and dad were fighting again. Only this time, it was big. My mom told us to get in the car, so we all did. And we drove nonstop, for what seemed like hours. There’s no way any of the kids would’ve asked how long we were driving for. There was already a mountain of stress and hurt on my mom.
We showed up at some ladies house, and naturally she offered us food.
“Do you want a BLT?”
I’ve never actually had one of those. Are they only for white people? We humbly accepted, not wanting to be a burden since it seemed like we were going to sleep here tonight. So she made it for us, probably sensing our fear, timidness, confusion.
And we ate. And it was so dry. Oh my gosh. It was so dry. I don’t think we finished it. The bread was dry, the lettuce had no water in it. The tomatoes barely helped. Which made the bacon unappetizing.
I don’t remember how long we stayed there. I remember the lady setting up something on the floor for us to sleep. I don’t think we spoke the same language. I don’t know what went through my mom’s mind. How she would entertain us for, God knows how many days, at this lady’s house?
Thank you lady for your hospitably. This makes me think about showing hospitality and kindness to all we meet. Which is hard because what if they’re weird, socially awkward, gross? But what if my mom showed up to that ladies house with kids that were all those things? Weird, awkward, gross. She wouldn’t have had any choice. And I’m glad she let us in.
I also think about my dad, what was going through his head when his wife up and left with all the kids? A lonely home.
I do remember that BLT. Yes it was dry. And yes she was nice, to some kids that were developing their mother and father wounds, in the process of breaking, and making memories they didn’t think they would remember more than 10 years later.