Family faces

circle the dining table,

the raucous racket

of elevated voices;

the teasing, the puns, 

grandpa's annoying 

stir of his coffee 

until I grabbed his hand

to stop him, while he, 

grinning, pretended to object.

Dad carving the bird

on the diswasher top, 

all of us crowding 

the kitchen,

while biscuits, 

over baked and burned,

are rescued. 

Cracking cranberry cans, 

waldort salad

going brown, 

scalding potatoes

wrapped in foil

tumbling onto the floor.

The click of glasses

about to be filled,

The stuffing bowl

 plopped onto the table,

steaming, 

 a panicked mom

trying to time

the gravy,

With the wild exuberence

of the familiar,

we took our places,

until some chairs sat empty

and heavy with memory.

This eternal table, 

this sacred space,

this imperfect day,

with some of us

eager to get away, 

voices loud, soft or booming,

our song of life

so fragile, so strong.

A place to return,

after it's gone. 

This is the collective face

of love.