The Children's Table

Christmas dinner at Gram’s the dining room

extended across the house to the far

wall where sat the youngest cousins

around the children’s table devoid

of the fine China and cut glass of the adults,

too fragile for our clumsy hands and manners.

There, we were served by our mothers

and aunts, our paper plates piled high

with potatoes, white and sweet orange,

green beans and peas and carrots,

turkey and dressing smothered in gravy,

cranberry sauce, and for dessert, pudding

and pie and molasses cookies freshly made,

retrieved from the cookie jar on the sideboard,

always well within grandchildren’s easy reach.

Although we didn’t mind our place

away from the adult conversations

that kept us hushed and ignored, safe

there among the myriad of young cousins,

we dreamed of moving, each in turn, up

to the adult table, assuming a rightful

place with the big people, even as we stole

the nuts and mints from the little paper cups

placed before the cousins around us and spilled

our lunch, crumbs and gravy, on ourselves

and the floor below, anticipating the Christmas

tree to come where we’d seen a package

bearing our name and a bright red bow

pushed far to the back, hidden

and out of sight, awaiting us.