—It belongs to memory
We set the table anyway,
not out of hope,
but out of habit.
A plate where laughter used to sit,
a glass that caught your second pour,
a napkin folded like the day
you said you couldn’t stay for more.
The coffee brews more soft than strong,
the pot unsure, the kitchen still.
Its steam drifts up like half-formed prayers,
the kind that rise against your will.
We speak your name the quiet way,
the way that doesn’t break the room.
A toast to what you might have brought,
a nod toward what we still assume.
The turkey cools. The hours pass.
A candle burns its slender hymn.
The feast is smaller than the year,
but somehow full,
because of you,
the ones we miss,
the ones we keep,
the ones who never quite arrive
and never really leave.
📜 To the Ones Who Don’t Come – The Recipe
Ingredients:
- 1 cup warm, steady coffee
- One empty chair with intention
- A name carried gently to the table
Instructions:
Pour the coffee for yourself and pour another for who isn’t there. Let the second cup cool untouched. Sip yours with gratitude tender enough to hold both presence and absence. When you rise from the table, leave the empty cup where it sits. It belongs to memory.