… soup steaming, flatbread fused with broiled cheese bubbling, everything at the necessary super-hot temperature.  I coax Caleb into the chair – finally.  He is dependent on prompts which line up in an increasingly long and mysterious lead in:  I say sit, then, down (2x), pointing to the chair, say sit – again, touch his shoulder with a little nudge, repeat sit 2x (more)…and when finally seated we say a prayer that also has additions…

Dear Jesus, thank you
for our food.  Amen!  Ready…
set, Go!  Eat!  Go!  Eat!!!

…sometimes even this is not enough.  He waits until I take some bread; he waits until I lift my spoon; he waits until I take my first mouthful of soup adding in those cues before finally getting the food into his mouth.

He is no Esau, so mercilessly controlled by his appetites, that he abdicated his responsibilities and birthright.  But did Isaac mourn Esau’s lack of freedom like I sometimes mourn Caleb’s, or even my own?  The blessing was right there, already his.  Caleb, spoon in his hand, can leave ice cream melting in a bowl.

© 2016 – Laurel Archer

Photo Credit – Laurel Archer
Poetry form: Haibun