I couldn't watch her eat. It was something I only realised as I grew older. I suddenly noticed, what it actually looked like.

Those tiny teeth in her small mouth. Reaching over something far too big to fit her mouth. Getting crumbs and such on the side of her mouth.

Her teeth yellow and discolored. Not like a poor person's teeth. Like teeth of someone with means to brush and get them fixed when damaged.

Someone with every opportunity and the means to take care of her teeth. But the lack of skill and character to do so.

My picture of her is always that she is eating standing. Or sitting awkwardly. Eating fast. One hand to her mouth. Another reaching across the table to grab something or other for someone.

She has four kids, a husband - who doesn't cock or clean - and a rather large golden retriever, who lacks manners and is laying under the table, waiting for scraps.

There was never any time for her to eat properly. Or there was never a sense of time for her to take, and eat properly. At the table. Slowly. Two hands on knife and fork.

Small bites. Chewing. Stopping to take a sip of her glas. Or responding to a question.

There was also no time for civil conversation. It was in, sit, grab, eat and leave. The mother trying to get all kids to eat without yelling. Sharing potatoes and pieces of chicken equally and to everyones best liking.

She would take something for herself last. Or simply wait and eat whatever was left.

It was not the best of terms for proper eating.

Even so, I couldn't look at it. The food in mouth, open, crumbs on the side, on her chest. Using her fingers to crab an extra piece of bread. Talking while chewing. Multitasking, but poorly.

There was no grace. No air in her step. No lightness or easyness in her moves.

It was rough. Hurried. As if the house could come tumbling down upon the family at any moment. Every hour was fixated on getting through this hour. Getting through a meal. Getting through a car trip. Packing. Vacation drives.

And don't even get me started on school mornings.

Only on Fridays was there a sense of a collective sigh. She was relaxed. And so the whole family was relaxed. There was no hurry. No place to go or problem to solve. The house was steady.

Sometimes there would be celebrations or gatherings with friends or family members. She would dress up with red lipstick and nails. She would put her curly hair up on the top of her head. She would be excited and happy, exhilarated even. As if going out as a family was the only time she really lived. This was life.

The other days we're survival.

This was my mother.

And every time I took a bite, I would see how my mouth would take bites too big for me, and feel the crumbs on the side, and falling on to my chest.

And I'd be disgusted by myself. Thinking that this is her legacy. That I should have turned out better. Learned myself to eat better.

Fearing that my daughters have already learned to eat like me now. Like her.

Rough. Cracked. Ravenous.