At My Table

At My Table The silent dead sit at my table on Christmas night. They have been buried a half century of stony time. Under thick carpets of weeds and grass they sleep now— Old voices that once were heard within these white walls— Old faces now departed but still mingling with the vapors. I can see my dead mother at the end of this long table. Pauline is young again as she gazes upon her old friends. My mother died in 2003, but there she is with a red apron, Haunting me still with culinary aromas from her green kitchen— Her feast of salt and sugar still on display from distant 1967– Her dead relatives smiling now for the Polaroid picture. She says life is a bowl of green beans laced with bacon grease. The whisper of dry voices say grace under a dim chandelier. Now I can hear the clanging of forks and knives at my table.