She burned the rolls again, and the whole house filled with that dark toasted smell that means someone opened a window and laughed and blamed someone else. Nobody minds. They are already reaching across the table, sleeves in the gravy, hands landing on other hands to steady the passing of a too-heavy dish.
I forget, now, what warmth felt like from the inside. I watch it move around the table instead. The oven has been going all afternoon and the kitchen holds it like a held breath; a child presses her back against the radiator and doesn't notice she is doing it. The grandfather's plate steams.
He complains the turkey is dry. He says this every year, has always said it, and I would give everything I no longer have to feel a mouthful of dry turkey and be irritated by it.
They eat too fast. They always ate too fast, checking phones, arguing about the thermostat, waiting for the part they think is the real part. This is the real part. The clink of the serving spoon against the bowl. The one empty chair no one has moved. The way the youngest falls asleep mid-sentence against her mother's arm and the mother just shifts to hold the weight, still talking, not even looking down, because a warm sleeping child is a thing you can take for granted when you still have arms.
Eat slowly, my loves. Let the plates go cold. Let him tell you it's dry.
Stay at the table long after the candles gutter, knees touching under the wood, and do not, for anything, get up too soon.