It is a long trek to the house built on the bones of silence. Only the very small are allowed to enter this place. Only when you have finished everything on your plate will you be allowed to leave. The entrance opens to a long corridor. The carpet is rich and dark, its centre is covered in a thick plastic sheet to preserve it. You walk down the hall to the kitchen; a rich orange cordial is drunk out of glasses that once held candles. For food think thick doughy noodles in broth, think fish and baked potatoes. Think chicken. (The chicken a little dry, you took a long time arriving. You know six o'clock should mean six o'clock. But for you it means seven.) Think platters of sliced radish and turnip. For dessert there's stewed apples, and sips of sweet prune wine. There's coffee and almond biscuits, there's cake and the special liqueur chocolates for the grown-ups. Go on. Nem ztvei, take two. Naa. Take.
Morris, Ronnith, The Table of Memory, Kunapipi, 17(3), 1995.