Sunday Night Dinner – Shannon Mast

A dog is lying on the bottom of my bed.
Her legs shake as she whimpers,
tossing and turning.
I think she’s dreaming.
Chasing squirrels?
Do dogs dream in black and white?
I look out the window –
snow is falling, slowly.
I grab my biology textbook
and throw on the pink sweater my grandma made.
It’s 8 pounds, all by itself.
I crawl under the covers wondering
what mom is cooking for dinner.
Manning throws a pass into the end zone.
Spaghetti and meatballs,
her go to meal for a cold winter night.
She rolls the raw meat with her bare hands
to about the size of golf balls.
The dog breathes in a deep
aroma of meatballs, in tomato sauce,
and she immediately jumps off the bed,
runs to the kitchen
to beg for scraps.
Number 80 drops the pass.
The smoke alarm goes off.
The noise annoys the dog.
She barks protecting the house.
Mom forgets to turn the overhead fan on
when the meat’s in the frying pan.
We gather around the table,
hold hands, repeating the same words
every night.


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