Leftovers

My mom believes religiously in leftovers Leftover food and leftover love I only get the trickle down of the sentimentality after my siblings have had their fill There’s some in the refrigerator saved for when I come home with a good grade on a test in school and there’s some in the freezer for when I get accepted into a college But, there’s none made fresh for me. It always seems like all of the fresh food is predetermined to go to my brothers and sister. There’s no meal made for me; I can only hope for “there’s a kitchen of food, so find something to eat because I’m not cooking”. I go into the kitchen and make some simple sandwiches or something and I go to bed still having those pangs. Or I may not eat at all and go to bed with my stomach begging for me to eat something. So, I wait until everyone is sleeping, partially because of this hunger keeping me tossing and turning. Then, I slink down the hallway to the kitchen and quietly open the refrigerator to grab something to drink to quench my thirst for being appreciated or grab the first food that I can find and scarf it down before anyone notices the light reflecting off of the kitchen floor. But, I always get caught. I always get caught and I always get yelled at. She says that I’m trying to sneak. I think that I’m trying to survive; I do not speak out of fear. So, I lie back down in bed with enough sustenance in my stomach to get me through the night without gnawing off my hand. I go to school the next morning and depending on how I feel, I go to get breakfast from the cafeteria. But, I’m almost always disappointed with the food. They never have what I want in the lines. My stomach growls at me during the day and I just sit quietly with my music blaring and pray to God that no one hears it other than me. My card doesn’t work at the snack machines, so I starve until lunch. Then, lunch comes and I scarf my food down because I’ve missed the complete feeling that it gives. It just makes me whole. But, then lunch ends and I have another half of the day to go. And so is the routine for the five days a week that I have school. Sometimes on the weekends, my mother gets up and makes breakfast. I get a meal today. I sit down at the table and practically rip through the plate because I’m so hungry. She makes a comment about the speed with which I eat and we share a laugh over the breakfast. But most times, I get up and eat a bowl of cereal alone in the kitchen. I wake up too early for anyone and get out of the bed too late to meet anyone at the table. So, I sit in the kitchen, stare at the refrigerator and eat in silence. When I’m done, I wash my bowl in the sink and I go back into my room. I have no reason to complain, right. At least, I have food, right? I guess when you don’t hold any weight from even the small foods that you eat and you are a picky eater, you start to appreciate those grandiose meals, which come sparingly in my house. My mom says that I need to learn to cook so that I can survive on my own. I can learn to cook, fine. But, will that solve our dynamic? Will we finally have the true bond of a family instead of coinhabitants of a house? Just once I would like a good meal made only for me. I hate eating leftovers every day.