The Elk in the Glade

And there, in a corner in the good chair, she sits:

angular jaw, crepe-skinned, permed white hair,

“hard-of-hearing”

Jennie.

She smiles her three-toothed grin

and extends her bony blue arms.

I take my place beside her.

Her large mountain lake painting

seems to cover the wall opposite, above the TV.

Her voice is soft, with a lot of tongue slipping between her lips.

Her dark, bright eyes, mirrored in all three daughters,

glisten as I ask and listen.

She loves to tell. She grows younger in telling

about blizzards, sod houses, wagons fording the river,

until we are called to the long table in the narrow room.

After a short prayer the endless passing begins:

turkey, dressing, potatoes, gravy, green beans, mystery casserole,

sweet potatoes, cranberry in ruby disks, until finally

it has all gone all around and we can eat.

Jennie gets hers ground to mush.

She gums away fitfully.

She can’t hear anything in the din.

It will soon be time for her nap.

Time for seconds and again the rite of passing,

then dessert. It is endless.

I look around the table at four generations gathered.

It seems it will always be so.