The Chair We Did Not Address

She reached for the spoon and then she stopped.

One second, maybe two, before she dropped

her hand and found the pepper and moved on.

Nobody mentioned what was gone

or who. Her daughter asked about the drive.

Someone said the crust this year—alive

with compliments, the table glad to turn.

The gravy cooled. The centerpiece—a fern,

dried out, someone's idea—held still.

The spoon stayed in the dish. It always will

in my memory, that smear of brown

on the handle. Four days and I can't put down

what I saw in her pause—the chair, the place—

before she put the careful back on her face.