The Plate That Was Never Ours
Honey-glazed ham, if she could afford it.
Mashed potatoes drowned in butter.
Green beans with bacon.
Cornbread that made your mouth water just looking at it.
She wrapped one plate carefully in foil.
Placed it in a grocery bag.
Tied the handles like it mattered.
I was eight the first time I asked.
“Who’s that plate for?”
“That one’s not for us,” she said.
At fourteen, I asked again.
“It’s for someone who needs it, baby.”
I didn’t know then that the man who received that plate would one day change how I understood my mother — and my own life.
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