Her Spot at the Table
A young woman remembers her grandmother.
This is the first time at the table for a spot.
She had succumbed to the illness
As the food that once was hot,
There was no time for any shrillness.
We just glanced over there.
Passing helpings of corn.
I wished she was in her chair,
And she could be born.
This was not in any way faith at all.
This was a serious thought about her
There was no God to make the final call.
Even now, I wanted her to stir.
My grandmother, gone, never would cook.
But at her spot at the table, I still look.
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Skyler Saunders
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Comments (1)
Grandmothers are divine, true gifts to us. I think of mine often.