english,
Literary: Dinner Time
It is dinner time once again.
Seated at the long, narrow table are me, my sister, and my eldest brother. On either side of the table are my mother and father.
Seven chimes. The grand clock looming over the dining table tells us when it is time to eat. When the 7 chimes are up, we must all be in our proper seats.
No one has ever been seated after the 7 chimes.
It is always quiet at the dinner table. For a common household, it is imperative that the family exchanges conversation to establish a bond between its members. In a situation where members of the family are stuck with each other for a period of time, unable to leave, silence becomes a deterrent, unbearable to have within the vicinity. Total silence at the dinner table usually indicates that a family’s condition is uneasy, after all who could get in the mood to talk when the family isn’t getting along well?
However in this household, silence is revered. It is what ties our family together. Silence at the dinner table is comfortable, enjoyable even. I’m sure everyone here at the table thinks so, too.
The meals in our house are impeccable, cooked by the finest chefs you wouldn’t be able to find even in the highest class restaurant. After the meal was finished, the next course would be served, and so on and so forth. Empty plates would be taken in the blink of an eye, as quick as the dishes were served. As dinner is ongoing, no one is allowed to leave nor stand up. It is considered incredibly rude. One time, my sister nearly left her restraints, and I nearly broke the silence with my anger. Luckily, I was able to pull her back just in time with the promise of dessert. Tonight, it was strawberry panna cotta, topped with a garnish of caramel sauce.
Eight chimes on the grand clock indicate it’s time to go. Once again, before the 8 chimes are up, everyone must leave the dining room. No one’s ever stayed after the 8 chimes to find out what happens.
This is dinner time at our household. It’s a relaxing experience, yet it seems mother and father are still not satisfied. After the meal is over, from their confines, they beg me to let them go. They try to convince me they’re not my mother and father, and I laugh at their silliness. They really do love to play tricks. It’s like this every night, no wonder they’re exhausted beyond belief. Behind them, brother looks at me with livid eyes, while sister’s pupils are filled with fear. I walk over to her and smile, my dear sister always looks wonderful. She shakes in delight as I kiss her forehead, my hands still stained red from dessert, and tell her it’ll be alright.
After all, we’re a family aren’t we?
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