Sunday, March 20th - "Dinner Table Economics"

My father says he doesn't understand it, saying thanks

for one's dinner. After all, it's not as if some invisible being

had a hand in picking tomatoes in Florida, in shipping them

in cheese-wedge shaped bags up to the supermarket,

in slipping them over the countertop to purchase. It's just

capitalism, he says with a shake of his chin, slowly sipping

his decanter of red wine. No one needs a thank you. We all

come out ahead, in this transaction. That's the beauty

of America, you know. He pushes his peas around with his fork,

stares greedily at the bread basket in the center of the table,

dabs his mouth daintily with the thin paper napkin,

which tears almost as soon as it makes contact with skin. Well,

we may as well get it over with, he says, noticing

the slight grimace on my grandmother's face, breaking

like a curse word etched into her worn out forehead. If you insist

on saying grace, get it over with, so we get on with dessert.

My grandmother shakes her head, says it's all right, says

she's already finished saying a thousand thank you's

in her head, by the time my father is finished. Well then,

that's good, he says, his mouth cracking loosely

into something resembling a smile. See, we're all

happy. We all got something out of it. Now

you know why when I get up in the morning,

I only feel obligated to say thank you to myself for all my luck.