Reunions

We gather 'round the table,

come from afar,

the table that we have circled

for decades, made by one ancestor,

stained black by another,

reclaimed and stripped 

to its original beauty by a third.

The food and bubbly and plates

are passed;

we chat and joke,

and ply our forks and knives

with appreciative murmurs.

Everything tastes so good,

enjoyed together.

"Tell us one of your stories, Grandma,"

one of the kids will ask,

eyes fixed on me expectantly,

and I will tell them,

to much laughter,

sometimes a tear,

and many a 

"Remember when?"

What we don't talk about

is how each of us

is remembering

the beloved faces 

no longer here:

the ones who once made the meals,

and were central to our gathering,

now gone ahead,

their cackles silenced,

and forever missed.

How many more  before

I am missing, too?

When that day comes,

I hope the children

will re-tell some of my stories,

will say "Remember when?"

And, if they fall silent

and listen, in the midst of 

their laughter and tears,

perhaps they'll hear

a whisper of 

Wild Woman's cackle,

echoing faintly

down all the 

glistening years.

for Susan's prompt at Midweek Motif: Reunions.