No one ever dies on Sunday
at my mother’s dinner table
my grandmother’s tinkling laugh
rises and falls to the sound
of silverware laid to rest
glasses clinking as if
to announce my grandfather
coming in from the garden
an armful of chrysanthemums
for the vase a welcoming scent
chickens roasting in the oven
chairs sliding on the wooden floor
as everyone takes their places
aunts and uncles and distant cousins
my mother brings them back
in the dead of winter steam rises
the worn kettle singing a familiar tune
even my husband is alive again
if only for this afternoon
ghosts gather and mingle come
silently into the kitchen on cue
hovering before taking their leave
in and out and in and out again
my mother says just one more
cup of tea before you go and
she’s young once more
in the late light of an afternoon
a girl again I tuck my legs
one underneath the other
and settle into the warmth.