Tee

[Laurels]

The table is set.
The seats are laid out.
The extra leafs were dug out from the basement,
just to complete the Rockwellian sight.
A tablecloth rests,
its reds, golds, and purples
swirled like a mandala,
repeating and tracing alongside the dishes.

The chairs are set.
The original dining set
mixed with patio chairs,
the office chair,
and an ottoman for the littlest one.
It's a tight arrangement, but
no one's upset to feel the ridges
of their neighbor's elbows.

The people are set.
Each filing in, aided by the sounds
of chair legs scraping against the hardwood
just past the carpet's edge.
Everyone moving to their prearranged spots
without the need to know who should sit where,
like cans along a conveyor belt.

The head is set.
Their eyes turn to the man
with red, watery eyes,
and hands coarse from working on
train engines for years.
He taps his fingers on the tablecloth,
in the space between the gold and red swirls.

The prayer is set,
when he calls for everyone to say grace.
The men, women, and children all
bow their heads quietly,
and wait for his sermon.
He, who has never been one for speeches,
whose last speech was when he made vows to
a woman who left the earth long ago,
speaks.

The tone is set.
Words spoken for a girl lost.
Whose word of death came just days ago.
Whose final moments were summarized online.
Whose actions were relayed,
but left unseen
by those at the table,
who dared to give her the privacy of that moment,
rather than let that rewrite the story they knew of her.

The mood is set,
as the head briefly looks at the four children remaining.
The eldest, who resembles him both in name and appearance,
who traveled hundreds of miles when his sister was first reported missing.
The middle two, who relied on her the most during the worst years.
And the youngest, who had been crying since she left all those months ago.

The set ends,
and those seated animate.
Plates clink, glasses tap, silverware chimes,
but no one dares to speak.
Father said enough,
and the amount of sweet potato casserole
on the little one's plate
made a preferable focus.

That is
until she begins to cry again.
She remembers how her sister
twirled her fork through casserole,
made shapes and peaks with the lumps,
and praised the caramelization of the marshmallows.
But she keeps this memory to herself,
and will for years to come.

That's when others join her.
They clench their jaws,
leave their forks on their plates,
and bow their heads again.
But this time,
no prayers are uttered,
no words are spoken.

There's nothing left
for the family to do now,
when they are one again reminded
that nothing can remain set.