They are the only ones who nourish me. I am the only one who washes them. Five silver spoons with shiny handles and smooth edges like butter. Five who belong to each member of the family. Five Target purchases selected by my mom. From his room, he can’t see them, but Ben appears when he hears their clink.

Their memories are food. They send steaming soup into our mouths. They’re lifted up and they’re set down and they stir the chili every few minutes and serve the corn with their rounded bowls and never spill their peas. This is how they feed.

Let one finish his meal for the evening, they’d all get washed like babies in a bath, each stacked on the other. Feed, feed, feed they say in the drawer. They plead.

When I am too full and too fat to keep eating, when I am a giant thing from so much ice cream, then it is I don’t look at spoons. When there is nothing left to eat in our kitchen. Five who fed despite forks. Five who wait and do not forget to wait. Five whose only reason is to satisfy and satisfy.