Tomorrow Repast
The tablecloth lifts, white and spotless
floats down on the table she sets
with burnt orange napkins rolled and
set in umber holders – white pottery
and clear crystal tumblers at each place
A vase of autumnal leaves - crisp vermillion
mimic the three trees outside the front
window – sunlight streams through sky-
lights - Tomorrow is the day –
of thanks – of gratitude – for all the
tragedies that have not befallen –
for the privilege unknown to others –
for all that has not been taken – as others
have lost forever more – she strains to
fill her inner cup with the gratitude of what
she has not had to endure – and yet –and yet -
A random melancholy thought falls over
her as she surveys the gleaming floor –
inhales the good smells that the cleaners
have left – Yes, tomorrow is the day – the
table is nearly set – yet, that thought floats
through again – perhaps – she muses she shall
Place photographs of all once there – place them
Here, where they sat at each empty chair –
Remember the clink of glasses the passing of
food- the round about the table thanks given
The laughter, the love, the talk, oh the talk,
tumbling like a water-fall into a clear stream
Yes, perhaps she shall place a photograph at each
empty chair and fill the space with something
beyond misty memory – as they sit down
She and husband
passing sweet potatoes, and tradition -
smiling through the succulent sorrow of
tomorrow.
Gratitude must shine
for this
not small
wonder of
love and
largesse
for what is-
in mystic memory
of all that is not.
