He keeps his eyes closed as he eats. He sees his mother over a spattering pan in the apron she wears with the wide blue flowers, the one his father gave her for her birthday that year when it got so cold they woke up one morning to frozen dew, the grass outside the door a sparkling silver sea. He sees his mother carrying a tray of fried fish to the table, sees his father at the table’s head, the sun setting through the window behind him, the dog sniffing out in the yard.
He sees the old picnic blanket, flies buzzing around potato salad, Darryl and Sadie on the bayou’s edge. He sees a rope swing swaying, dark heads in the water, ripples glinting in the sunlight. He sees the tendrils of a willow, fat branches reaching out over the water. He can feel the heat of the sun on his skin.
He sees a pecan grove, the stiff narrow leaves around the bulging husks, the split husks with their treasure on the ground. He sees a giant silver bowl, Grace’s thin hand around a wooden spoon, swirling sugar, butter, nuts into a single substance.
He sees as a boy, eye-level with the table, the fire roaring in the hearth, the dog curled at his father’s booted feet, his mother’s feet bare beneath the hem of a bright green skirt.
He sees his life with every bite. He swallows his memories whole.