The Extra Chair

Journal

I set an extra chair anyway.

The table still knew her place.

The light stayed on the table.

My sister flew in late, snow in her hair, holding a pie she didn't bake.

"I know," she said, before I said anything.

We burned the first pan of rolls.

We laughed in the smoke until the alarm gave up.

We said Mom's name over the cranberries like a toast.

The extra chair didn't argue.

After dishes we sat on the porch in coats.

The neighborhood went quiet in that good way.

I left the extra chair out overnight.

It didn't feel empty. It felt kept.