At a soft pine table.
(Isaiah 6)
I sit.
Mother is busy,
At the stove,
At the kitchen sink,
Wiping bowls,
Cleaning vegetables,
Stirring,
Creating,
Smiling.
Her presence moves around this space and Touches me
As it touches everyone else.
Her shadow lingers
A bit longer than it should,
As a mother's shadow should.
She cooks,
She laughs,
She tells a quip.
She smacks the hand of those who
Cannot wait to taste the food
She will offer.
She hugs,
She smiles,
She hums her mothery song.
She cooks with love,
She dances with love,
She adopts us all.
And I sit.
Our Father in his chair.
His pipe in hand,
Then at his mouth,
Then in his hand again.
He scoffs,
He huffs,
He smiles,
He laughs.
He reads the paper,
The news of the day,
He shakes his head and
Sets the paper down.
He returns to the more serious
Work of looking,
And seeing,
And smiling,
And smelling,
And tasting his pipe.
There is a bustle and a stillness
As we wait for food.
There is a song playing full of
Rhythm and words
(And no words).
A song that stirs and resounds;
The spirit of our home.
I sit and look.
I sit and think.
I sit and look and think and listen.
I smell,
I smile,
I shed a tear,
And I sit at a soft pine table.
I am home,
I am within this
I AM.
My Brother,
Her Son,
My Fathers Child,
He bursts right in.
Full of chitter and chatter,
And stories of his day.
He is familiar,
He is friendly;
To me,
And mum,
And Dad, too;
A most friendliest friend to all.
He is my wrestle mate, and my
Ally,
And at times,
He is my rival,
My nemesis (so I think),
But no.
He is always my friend,
And always, always, my always.
I belong with Him,
I belong with Father,
I belong in the Spirited song of this
Evening's feast;
And I belong at this table.
Now we are all sitting together,
The table is cluttered
With elbows and hands.
(This is the conversation,
That I belong to)!
It is happening
At a soft pine table.
A table scratched by the time of my life.
And mother is here,
And the Holy Three are too.
I bare witness,
I see them here,
And they see me.
I sit at the table.
My fingers touch
The marks and scratches
Of the soft wood.
My ever presence
In the ever present.
And,
I wait.
With Father,
With Brother,
With Spirit.
We wait.
For mother's smile,
And her stew.
And now,
Father looks at me and says:
"Will someone ring the dinner bell?"
by Tara Boothby
June 11, 2024
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