The Meal

The meat is before us, the flagons

have been filled, but my father

doesn't rise to speak. His head

is turned toward the spectacled man

who stares at his plate, and I've seen

that sharp white jaw in a picture-

my grandfather, the lawyer, the one

who died young of syphilis. The candles

glimmer his lenses, he doesn't look up.

Down the table in the crowd of faces

another comes clear, my father's

grandfather, the graybeard harness maker

they called Grosspapa, and more

beyond him that I almost know,

their faces obscuring, faint moons

in the dim smoky light. No one

has reached for a fork, the quiet

is awkward now, and I worry

for my father as I used to worry

when the whiskey drugged his tongue.

But he sits straight in his chair,

hands on the edge of the table,

his tie knotted tight. I feel

the familiar weight of his gaze

and a long time passes before

I can look, before I finally see

that the hurt his gray eyes held is gone,

they are clear and burning now,

and helplessly empty of words.

I understand that until I speak

the meal can't begin, all down

the long table they are staring

and waiting, they are hungry, the food

is before them, they have travelled