I set his place this year.
Force of habit, muscle deep–
the fork, the knife, the folded napkin,
the water glass he used to keep
at two beside his plate,
always two, never twelve, never three,
a man of geometric habit
in the smallest ways that be.
The turkey came out dry.
He was the one who watched the bird,
who basted every forty minutes,
who listened for the timer, stirred
the gravy with a wooden spoon
he carved himself from cherry stock,
and I burned everything I touched
and stood before the stove in shock
at how much of a holiday
was him–was his timing, his precision,
his instinct for the moment
when the meal required a decision.
The empty chair is louder than the prayer.
The empty chair will not bow its head.
It holds the space of a man who carved the meat
and poured the wine and always said
the thing that made the table laugh–
and now the table sits in silence,
and the chair holds nothing but the craft
of missing him through every violence
of ordinary days that keep demanding
we go on, we eat, we chew,
we swallow something other than this grief
and pretend the food tastes true.
His daughter saw the extra setting.
She did not say a word, just turned
her face toward the window and the yard
where the last light of the day still burned
against the fence, and I could see her jaw
go tight the way his used to do
when the feelings got too big for talk
and the only option left was through.
I left the plate untouched all night.
Nobody cleared it, nobody dared.
We ate around it like a centerpiece
of absence, perfectly prepared.