Time passes and I grow hungry.
The hunger takes me back in reverie to my childhood table where we are sitting awaiting Grandma's wonderful dinner. Grandma was a good cook. I don't know which feeling was better, the one of being full or the one of anticipation borne on the aromas that would come from her kitchen for hours preceding the meal: the spicy smell of cinnamon coming from the apple pie with the crisp and salty crust; the onions being readied for their marriage with any number of other ingredients to make her magnificent soups and stews; the yeasty breads baked every other day. Oh yes, Grandma was a very good cook.
We are sitting in our usual places around the table, six of us, with our bellies growling out for the wonderful things soon to come from her kitchen. Grandma appears in the doorway holding a plate of potato pancakes, the topmost one still sizzling and steaming. Potato pancakes are one of our favorites. She hands the plate to Grandpa, who is sitting at the head of the table, a place she reserves for him. He takes two from the top, pauses, takes another, then passes the plate.
Grandma has disappeared into the warm kitchen to bring forth her next offering: golden brown, crispy-on-the-outside, juicy-on-the-inside, breaded pork chops — six of them, each one a vision of perfection. Not a crumb has fallen off onto the plate. They are like a picture from a magazine...no, better than that because their smell has now filled the room and we finger our silverware in anticipation. Soon. Soon the platter will be empty and the vision will move onto our plates.
I watch Grandpa take the platter from Grandma and make his selection, the one of the six that pleases him most. Then with horror I see him again lift his fork and circle the plate to make still another selection. No! Can't you see there are only six of them and count: one, two, three, four, five, six — there are six of us. No, Grandpa!
His second chop balances slightly to the left but on top of the first, and next to the stack of potato pancakes. As young as I am, I realize someone will go without. I fear it will be me, since I am sitting in the sixth position at the table. Will no one speak out to stop this man?
Nothing is said however, and the plate is passed slowly now, with everyone taking a just portion and averting the glance of the next person to take the platter. No one offers recognition of the crime that has just taken place. Silence reigns. Thick and heavy silence. I want to scream "Grandpa you are a pig and you have stolen someone's food"...but I dare not speak out or I will be asked to leave this table, hungry.
The platter comes to me with one chop on it. I look around at the others' plates. Grandma's is empty. She has been serving us and not at the table to take portions for her meal. Now it will be I who is forced to take Grandma's food, for I am too hungry to sacrifice.
When the meal is over, Grandpa's plate is still almost filled with the abundance he has taken. He leans over and says to Grandma, "Mama, I'm too full. Wrap it up and I'll eat it later."
Now and later; then and now; yesterday, today and tomorrow; past, present and future. They all belong to him, and to all those like him who are never satisfied, always wanting more than their share.
Because of their greed there are those who must go without. Our earth is plentiful and generous, able to take care of all its guests, but not when some of those guests cannot live on their just portion, reach for more and more, stuffing it into lives too small to consume it all. They hoard for the future, worrying about their "laters" when some have died in the hunger of their "now."
Yes, Grandpa, I can almost see you — your plate so heavy with food you can't lift it onto the final-gathering table. I bet there is no "Grandma" there to help you in your greed; securing respect for your selfish ways; making it all right for you to be a pig. You did not belong at our table, the table of our family, because you thought only of yourself. You took your paycheck and spent it on whiskey instead of caring for the children you ushered into this world. You were selfish and greedy from the start, and you never changed. I was forced to respect you with my silence, but inside of me, where it mattered, I cursed you and your ways.
Grandma made me dance before you with open hands to receive my nickle on payday. Dance and smile and chant "payday treat, payday treat" because she wanted you to feel beneficent and kindly. But I didn't see you as that because I knew most of your payday treats were spent on yourself and the rest was fought for in a tug-of-war between you and Grandma...as if you had a right to your pay.
Your children supported you, Grandpa, the father who took food from their mouths. The father who was so jealous when his children got anything he would fly into a rage against their mother for spoiling them. "Spoiling" them? Those children scrubbed halls to pay the rent; carried coal and oil up four flights of stairs to fill the stoves; went out in the middle of the night to drag their father home; and then obediently handed over their pay envelopes without even looking inside because it was demanded of them.
And what was demanded of you? Nothing you would comply with. You took and took and took but never gave anything in return. Yes, Grandma clapped her hands and we danced for you, Grandpa. But no more.
Years away from that table, I tell the story and still feel disgust. I see you in people I meet every day who let their selfishness rob the world of justice and harmony. People who, in their piles of abundance wrapped up for later, have that which belongs to those who go hungry day after day.
As I sat at that table in wide-eyed horror, I saw the Beast. And when no one chased it away, it possessed me because I was small and defenseless, unable to understand or fight it off. Now it is I who wants to take two instead of one; who needs to be first to the table; who wants more than she needs; who hoards and hides for later. The demon now lives within me.
Grandpa, I know you are outside that door because I can smell the years of food that have gone rotten around you. If the door would suddenly fling open and I saw you sitting at a banquet table, I would not budge from my hunger to join you. And if you asked to be with me now, I would refuse you entry — choosing to be alone forever rather than invite you in. I will die before I forgive you.