On the long dining table, shimmering dinnerware set aligned with porcelain plates remained empty, perfectly spotless. The feast was about to start. Everyone remained in their seats, busily conversed amongst themselves. They were my relatives, my aunties, uncles and cousins. My parents too, were drowned in the bustling conversation leaving me beside seating still and frigid.
Meanwhile, old Barnett was sitting alone. Seated on the longest end of the table, Barnett stared blankly through the clear glass in front. He watched, observed as shatters of autumn leave motioned weightlessly through the air, which eventually sank into the ground, which eventually disappeared. Barnett seemed to have locked himself up in his peaceful reverie as he always did. He stayed pensive nowadays and hated such bustling occasion. Time flew and what left for Barnett was nothing but all those vanishing memories and a blank soul. Old Barnett was exhausted. He must be as I knew him so well this whole time.
Then a butler approached. Complete silence reigned over as the conversations were paused. All the guest drew attention upon the butler and his master.
"Master, dinner is ready."
His brows twitched, position transfixed, and commanded in a cold husky tone:
"Serve."
The silence continued. All of the guests adjusted their position and sat up straight. No conversation was held, not one word was spoken, as the feast had started.
Up next, maids and butlers lined in, with their both hands holding dishes in grand looks. They uncovered the lids one by one. For me, a total foodaholic the scene was really fascinating, The garnishing, so meticulous; the smell, so alluring; my taste buds began to tingle as they fathomed the unimaginable flavours infused in them. First, we have wellington Beef, next to some butter grilled salmon and then the steamed giant lobster. That was just amazing!
Yet withdrawing my appetite for those mouthwatering dishes, I felt the cold. The cold, the frigidness was still going on. Slowly and clumsily, Barnett cut out a little bite of salmon and delivered into his faint jaw. He repeated, enjoyed his dinner with relish, ignoring the seated guests. The guests began to dine in as well. They seemed so careful, minding the table manners, fearing to lose their etiquette.My Dad pulled out a crusty piece of baguette. The crust, so delicate, it crumbled and fell onto the table mat. Aunt Jacqueline beside me raised the glass of red wine, then sipped a mouthful from it in her most ladylike, elegant manner. I felt rather uneased. I observed people around, dazed upon the salad bowl in front with my stomach started to growl. The lettuce and hredded chicken were sliced into long thin strands together with the tangy smell of dressing, fully enlivens your senses. But still, I dared not to move.
Then, an old frail hand approached the bowl, trembling and shaking as it scooped up a mouthful of lettuce salad. Shocked, it proceeded nearer and dropped the salad in my plate. I turned my head up, it was old Barnett, his lips crescently upcurved. Wrinkles were squeezed up in his warm and benign face. I looked into his eyes, at first astounded, but later on fully melted. Finally he smiled. My loving grandfather had come back.
I closed my eyes, enjoyed the precious mouthful of salad. The crunching sound of the crisp, bitter lettuce entangled with classic French dressing intertwined created a simple but unforgettable that sealed forever in my memory
