The Invitation (11.5.06)

Several years ago I was given a standing invitation to supper. The head of family said anytime I desired to, I was welcomed. In the years that followed I joined him at his table—sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly. Others joined me there too, he called them his family and throughout the years their faces, races, and lives changed, as did where supper was served. Some I ate with just once, others many times as the years went on—but I was always welcomed.
Sometimes I was able to make it to supper, sometimes not. But like an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting, there was usually somewhere to sup. So even though I was not always able to join him, I was always welcomed.
But after some time of staying away, of dismissing his invite, I tried to crawl back to his table. So I went to where I thought there would be dining. Like an elite club to which I did not belong—I was made to feel un-welcomed. But I was always welcomed?
So for several months my invitation was revoked. He said I was welcomed—always; but this part of the family said, “no.” All those faces I had supped with grew faint, and I became sad. All those years, all those memories made fonder by my revoked invite. In hunger and thirst I left, sad and angry, in search of a table that would embrace me. I wanted to be with those others, that family that took me in and feed me. Maybe our time together would be short, maybe not—but either way they reminded me that he said, “I was always welcomed.”