Voids under the turkey’s shadow

We pass plates like quiet secrets,

a silence heavy as the golden bird.

The chair waits, empty, breath held,

the one seat no one mentions.

Forks tap like hesitant footsteps,

sentences break around the missing name.

Laughter is tight, eyes dart away,

as if talking louder could fill the absence.

No one says it, but the space is full—

with all the words we bury

under gravy and strained smiles,

waiting for a voice that won’t come back.