there were meals,
despite the groans
from us hungry children,
that my mother
would cook anyway,
out of spite,
I think.
liver and onions, for one.
split pea
soup for another.
tuna casserole. god help us.
together we'd shake our
heads and bang our forks
against the table in
protest, then eat,
slowly,
painfully, which she
seemed to enjoy,
showing a side of her
that I really didn't want
to know about.
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