He got
the purchase price wrong.
I corrected him.
He ignored me.
Nell laughed
with her head tipped back.
Trey reached
for the cranberry sauce,
tasted his own work,
and winced.
“It’s pretty tart.”
“It’s improving,” I said.
“It’s the same bowl.”
“Then maybe I am.”
He looked at me.
I let him see
that I meant it.
After dinner,
he started clearing plates.
I caught his wrist
gently.
“Sit a minute.”
“The dishes—”
“Will keep.”
So he sat.
The late afternoon light
lay across the table,
showing scratches
I had stopped noticing
years before.
There were marks
from homework pencils,
a hot pan,
a small boy’s experiment
with a pocketknife.
A table could survive
a great deal
and still be
worth gathering around.
That did not mean
letting anyone
cut into it again.
Trey followed my gaze.
“I did that one.”
“I know.”
“You were mad.”
“I was.”
“Mom said
it gave the table character.”
“Your mother
was protecting you.”
He smiled,
then looked down.
“She did that.”
“Yes.”
For a moment,
grief sat with us.
Nobody tried
to send it
into another room.
“I miss her,”
he said.
“So do I.”
“I wish
she could see—”
He stopped.
I waited.
“Not the court.
Not all of it.
I wish
she could see
I’m trying.”
I looked at
his work-worn hands.
The careful way
he had placed
his phone away.
The face
that no longer
searched mine
for an escape.
“I can see it,”
I said.
His eyes filled.
This time,
he let the words
be enough.
At dusk,
everyone helped clean.
Nell wrapped leftovers.
Vic dried dishes
with a towel
slung over his shoulder.
Alma took charge
of the refrigerator
only after asking
where things belonged.
Trey washed
the roasting pan
until the water
went gray.
I made coffee.
Nobody sent me
anywhere.
After they left,
my son remained
on the porch.
He held
his leftover container
against his coat.
“Same time Sunday?”
“Three,” I said.
“Call if work changes.”
“I will.”
He looked toward
the bare trees,
then back at me.
“I love you, Dad.”
“I love you, too.”
He stepped forward
slowly enough
to let me choose.
I put
my arms around him.
He was taller
than I remembered
every time
I held him.
For a moment,
I felt the child,
the grown man,
and the difficult distance
between them.
Then I let
my son
be the man
standing there.
When he drove away,
I stayed outside
until his taillights
passed the bend.
The air smelled
of leaves
and somebody’s woodstove.
Inside,
the house was warm.
I checked the lock,
turned off
the dining room light,
and carried
a small plate
of leftover pie
into the kitchen.
The little table
by the window
waited in lamplight.
I sat there
because I liked
watching the trees
move against the dark.
For a while,
I ate slowly
and listened
to the quiet.
Then I rinsed
my plate,
set the coffeemaker
for morning,
and went upstairs
in my own time.
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