Poetry- Six Seats at the Table by Sarah Frank

There used to be six seats at the table,

two left empty,

and food always at the center,

warm, right out of the oven,

crafted to make your tastebuds tango.

Aromas that smell like love,

alive with joy in each atom;

flavors with accents of happiness

flowing through them.

Cheeseburgers with buttered pasta,

ginger chicken on a bed of lemony rice

infused with love, warmth,

and contagious smiles.

My dad, wielding his spatula,

flips the burgers on the grill

filling the air with that satisfying sizzle,

sometimes, speaking louder than the conversation will.

It was always general topics,

passing between “How was your day?”

and “Why was it that way?”

Simple questions,

simple answers,

deeper meanings.

It was one of those things

that meant more in its own absence.

It was magnified 

by the negative space

it left behind.

Then illness

took my mom's seat at the table;

she moved to her own room

and privacy,

while illness laughed at our conversation,

laughed at us pretending things were normal,

and laughed until they were.

Until it was normal to have three empty seats at the table.

Until it was too normal.

We don’t eat at the table anymore.

We eat in front of the television 

and we don’t talk.

Eating in front of the television already says

all we need to say.