Anchovies in My Salad by Hannah Dilday

Anchovies in My Salad

There were about thirty of us sitting quietly
In the dim light, as the aroma of garlic filled the air.
Sounds from the kitchen eased my mind
As I picked at my salad, chewing each piece of lettuce
Far too long cus’ I wasn’t in the mood for talking.
Red wine flowed all around me, but I was too young to drink.
I felt safe nestled between my best friend and my mother
They knew I wasn’t in the mood for talking
So they chewed their salads slowly too, piece by piece.
After I’d choked down half of mine, I overheard someone say,
There are anchovies in the dressing.
When I overheard this, I began to cry—I was a vegetarian,
I had been a vegetarian most of my life, after all.
My aunt scolded me for crying over anchovies in my salad,
But I wasn’t crying about the anchovies,
I was crying because I’d just buried my dad
Who wasn’t at dinner at his favorite restaurant.
The waiter brought over a new salad without anchovies,
I dried my tears and I ate it piece by piece slowly, slowly.
I wasn’t in the mood for talking because
My dad wouldn’t have gotten mad at me for crying
Over anchovies in my salad. So I began to cry again because
He wasn’t here to not get mad at me for crying over
Anchovies in my salad.

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Hannah Dilday earned her Bachelor’s in Philosophy from The University of Oregon and studied abroad at The University of Cambridge. Though she always had a passion for writing, she did not realize her calling to poetry until relocating to The Netherlands four years ago. At 17, Hannah lost her father to an aggressive form of leukemia and she is often inspired by memories of her late father. In addition to writing poetry, Hannah enjoys photography, traveling, and learning Dutch.