To Have a Full Plate

“Eat your vegetables!”
my mother cried,
“Don’t you know children
are starving in this world?”
At the age of seven or eight
I had no idea.
I hated my vegetables
And would poke and prod
At the dry tasteless meat
That just lay there
On my plate.
Not inviting, especially
To finicky types, like myself.
Dinner would be finished
And I’d sit at the table
Arms folded and determined
Not to give in until sometimes
Eight o’clock at night.
My mother would
Take the plate away
And be furious
That she had lost
The war.
The food would go
Into the trash
Wasted and unwanted
And it never occurred to me
Then, how important it was.
Today, I hear myself
Quote my mother
When my daughter
Says, “I don’t like my dinner,
I’m not eating it.”
One day soon
It will occur to her too.