The House with Two Doors

Part I — The Stranger at the Table I walk into one house, and they ask why I don’t visit more, why I don’t eat their food, why I wear the skin of a stranger. But strangers would be fed first. My grandmother’s table is heavy for my siblings, for my cousins. For me only a single plate, set down with the words: I didn’t know you were coming. you should have told me. I told you. You just weren’t listening. When my mother comes, her arms carry more for the children who sleep beneath her mother’s roof. For me, her hands are already empty.