The Big Kids' Table

The big kids walk over. I'm invited.
A few of them ask, at different times during the day
so I know it's not some sort of joke.

I spend the afternoon thinking about it.
When younger, didn't I always want to be cool?
Didn't I always want to be older and distant?
That rarely happened.

Ride in their cars to the school, drive home with them
from work or clubs. The big kids aren't quite so big
after all. They can't be much different from you in the future
and my my my aren't you growing large?

So when the aunts and uncles convalesce
I wear slacks and a nice shirt and a tie
with a bit of my mom's gel on the peak of my hair
and sit quite cramped and uncomforted at their table
with the fork in one hand and the knife in the other
and when I cut a piece of food I switch the knife
with my other hand I pass them over
and replace them to put the food up to my mouth
I spear it and chew it.

They're talking and I listen, and I realize how much
the big kids' table is like all of the other tables I've sat at
when I wasn't quite so young or quite so confident.
This is a real occasion.

The big kids get tired and leave, and I'm finally free
to do things that I can't think of when I'm with them.

August 9