The Banquet

Date: 9/19/2022

My poetry professors pass a sword down to me, a marvelous thing, heavy, wide, a handle fit perfectly for my hand. A theatrical sword, not sharp of edge or pointy, it fits perfectly in the sheath of my long, heavy cloak, protruding just slightly from underneath, not too obvious. I feel proud to wal. Others from choir gather as we walk down the hall towards the banquet hall. Judy is upset that we weren't asked to perform this year. Probably because we're under our own leadership now, the manager having quit. "No worries," I tell her. "They never invite. We must apply and audition." It's not too late, but we haven't practised any new songs. Perhaps I could recite something sword related, but I can't think of anything. Maybe The Cremation of Sam MacGee, but it's long and reciting is very stagnant. Peehaps we could do a skit with it, interpretive dance and a fog machine. I cannot recall how it starts. It will come. Once I get the first line, the rest always falls into place. Inside the full banquet hall, Jean C calls me to the front and asks me to help serve deserts. I haven't eaten yet or spoken to the others about performing Sam, but I must agree. She hands me a white tray with plates and small, creamy squares resting on a bed of over-sized chocolate chip cookies. She is explaining what to do but I interrupt. "I'm a professional server," I assure her, but she is not convinced. I take the first tray to the furthest table on my right. There sit ladies from my early days and I help them each to a square using a butter knife to lift them onto their plates. I wish I could use my sword but that would be over-kill. Someone takes two and I'm not sure if that's allowed. I am walking back to the front realizing that this will take a long time. Nobody else is helping. Jean has left the next tray on the table for me. Everything looks so good but I am not likely getting any myself