The Prophet
I met a prophet in the freezer aisle at Woolies yesterday. He was reading the back of the box of frozen fish and I saw in his green shopping basket a packet of heat-in-the-oven dinner rolls.
Dinner for one? I asked.
He turned and smiled. I have a few mouths to feed, he said. He put the box of fish into the basket. You need a kindness.
Nah, I’m good. But I was hungry and wanted something to eat and the first thing that came to mind was a Macca’s Filet-o-Fish.
That was your favourite when you were younger, he said.
Tastes change, I said aloud.
Your memory doesn’t. It was time shared with your dad, before he passed. And you haven’t eaten one since because you know this is what sorrow tastes like.
I shuffled my toe into the lino floor and shifted the paper bag containing a frozen lasagne and a bottle of Coke. I said, Dad put his fries inside the burger, on top of the tartare sauce.
Go. Eat your sorrow, the prophet said. Gorge on it. Eat as many as you can.
Will it make me feel better?
No, the prophet said. Your grief will still be present but you will no longer be hungry. He walked to the end of the aisle towards the checkouts.
I watched him walk away until he turned out of sight. I opened the door of the freezer section and pulled out a box of frozen fish fillets. I needed tartare sauce and burger buns.
A Fullness in Brevity - Adam Byatt 