Sometimes my father ate Dinty Moore straight from the can, clenching a serving spoon and shoveling the stew into his mouth like he was the lumberjack he’d wanted to be, not the frustrated accountant he was. Dad never emptied the twenty-ounce can. Invariably, he’d hand it to my mother who’d pretend to eat a few bites before feeding it to the cat. Mom didn’t much care for the stew. Neither did Dad. He ate it so that he could briefly slough off one life and slip into another. The stew touched a hunger that neither food nor Mom could reach.
This was written in response to the 100 Word Challenge at Thin Spiral Notebook.