Spherical Triangles

Sunday nights.

My family sits down for dinner.

Mom, Dad, and child.

There are always six chairs

but we only fill three.

Sitting together in an uneven triangle.

 

Triangles are the strongest shapes in nature.

That is what they say.

 

But I once dropped a marble,

it looked to be made of glass.

It didn’t break.

It didn’t crack.

The ground couldn’t leave behind a single scuff.

 

I told my Mom that we are a marble;

she laughed at my joke and asked me about my day.

I told my Dad;

he smiled and told me to eat my food.

 

I took a strand of red thread

to the family dinner after.

Meatloaf and pleasantries wafting through the air.

I pulled the marble from my pocket

and broke a chunk of cornbread from its fluffy brick.

 

I had seen my Mom baking it.

My Dad bought the yeast.

The dying leaves outside laughed at me

or at the its similar cornbread.

Yellow gums and brown tipped teeth.

Terminal leaves are brittle

no glass

nor strength

nor love.

 

I tied them together with my string

wrapped tight in my limp bow

and presented it to my family.

 

Dad merely stared.

Mom scolded me for dirtying the bread.

 

Gold crumbs spilled into the sphere’s surface,

diving into frozen swirls of mocha and fresh milk.

The strands began dancing.

Twisting around each other

like debris in an unseen vortex

that never pulled them down.

 

Swishing and churning

skipping and tapping

singing together under a bright red ring.

 

My Mom looked me in the eyes

and told me to enjoy my dinner.