Her Spot at the Table

This is the first time at the table for a spot.

She had succumbed to the illness

As the food that once was hot,

There was no time for any shrillness.

We just glanced over there.

Passing helpings of corn.

I wished she was in her chair,

And she could be born.

This was not in any way faith at all.

This was a serious thought about her

There was no God to make the final call.

Even now, I wanted her to stir.

My grandmother, gone, never would cook.

But at her spot at the table, I still look.