The Thursday itself stayed in Patrice’s hands as the weight of a tin. She had been about to set the pie down. Vanessa had spoken. The set-down never became a serving. She had carried the tin back. The carry was the scene she owned. Vanessa owned the standing. Derrick owned the not today. The table owned the quiet after. She did not need to replay it to keep the lesson. The lesson was written on a calendar until the calendar went blank, and then the lesson was a short grace. Short was the graduate form. She used it. A child asked and she answered. We already know who is here. The answer was the whole theology she had. It fit a dining room. It did not need a pulpit.
Derrick kept the birthday call and dropped the almost-visit. Almost was the old sin. Whole or nothing, Lorraine had said once, and he had finally heard it. Whole was a coffee, a pinning exit, a speakerphone fee. Nothing was a holiday he did not crash. Patrice approved the nothing. Approval was not ownership of Imani. Approval was of a boundary. Boundaries were the house. The house held. She walked past the head of the table and did not set a place. Not setting was the prayer. The prayer was short. Who is here. They were here, or they were known, and known was enough to live on, quietly, with a blue towel and a knife that cut clean and a sister who had learned to sit down. The warehouse held. The day shift held. Evenings were rice, sometimes two pots, and a game that was only a game. He could watch a score without a secret in his pocket. Pocket was empty. Empty was correct. He dried the knife. The knife was serious. Pies were serious. He could live with serious. He did.
Imani kept the one-line habit and broke it once, to say the salty greens were a crime. Patrice wrote back: accuracy. Imani sent a laugh. A laugh was warmer than thank you and still the right size. Lorraine, copied by accident, wrote: don’t encourage her. They all encouraged her. Encouragement of salt was safe. Safe was the country. They lived in it. Dayton and the city. A cafeteria once. A afternoon sometimes. A folder. A frame. No empty chair at the feast. The feast knew. Knowing was the grace. Patrice ate the slice. The towel was in the drawer. The tin was washed. Washed was the Friday. Friday was better. She slept. The room was ugly and true. True was enough.
The kids who had been herded to the porch grew up and told a version that was almost right. A aunt who stood. A chair. A name. Patrice corrected the version if they asked and did not if they did not. Correcting unasked was a scene. She was done with scenes. One niece asked. Patrice said his first wife and a daughter, and the money was real, and the chair was not a haunting. The niece said okay. Okay was the education continuing. Derrick, told, said thank you for the not haunting. Patrice said haunting was never the job. The job was the sentence before grace. The sentence had happened. The rest was plates.