Come to the Table

Today I set my table small in size though it may be, for an Honored Guest had come to town, and I wanted her to see.

The crystal was the finest, and the plates were old and rare, the flatware needed shining, but I knew she wouldn’t care.

The candle that I lit smelled lovely beyond compare. I took it from amidst a shelf with several items there.

The “special things” I planned to save for such a time as this, when someone “worthy” came, as they were things I’d surely miss.

I knew she had faced some obstacles, although she’d done her best. What she really needed most of all was just a place to rest.

I told her she could come to stay for as long as it felt right. I’d feed her, listen, let her cry, and even hug her tight.

Her bed was made with linens white and pillows soft and warm. The bathroom stocked with fluffy towels and products to adorn.

All the things I cherished most for “special times” to come, were put in place without a trace of clinging to a one.

Pretty things were everywhere as it was in times of old, but stillness rang within the air, and for a moment, I grew cold.

Time was swift with years adrift in a sea of what was best, knowing now the answers to a long-forgotten test.

I put the thought behind me moving bravely towards the task of meeting with my Honored Guest, in the absence of my mask.

At last, the time had come for me to meet my long-lost friend. I recognized her profile as she walked around the bend.

Although the years had made their mark, her beauty still shone through. She looked around and sat right down as if it were nothing new.

Eye to eye and face to face, we sat beside the glow. Old enough to understand, and wise enough to know.

Today I set my table as silly though the task may be, for an Honored Guest has come to town, and that Honored Guest is me.

4 thoughts on “Come to the Table

  1. Sharon, This is a masterpiece! You may want to submit It to a magazine or something! You definitely have a gift💝 .

    Hugs, Anne C 973-202-8299 Connect on Facebook Anne.7.Bushell



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