The head of the table stayed Derrick’s because Mama was gone and somebody had to sit there. Sitting there no longer meant a lie at his left. His left was Vanessa, coat off, seated. Patrice’s place was the slices. The slices came out before grace. Grace was short. Who is here. The child who had asked grew and did not ask again. Not asking was peace. The game scored. A cheer. Only a play. Patrice ate. The basement stack had a chair that was a chair. The neighbor had used it. Use had cleaned it. Clean was the ending. She washed the knife. He dried it. The drying was the Friday. Friday was better than Thursday. She had said so. It stayed said. The names were known. The pie was cut. The empty had been explained once, loud, before grace, and then not needed again. Not needed was the win. She took it upstairs. The room was ugly and true. She slept. Morning was rice or coffee or nothing. Nothing was allowed. Allowed was 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.
On the morning after the fifth Thanksgiving, Patrice opened the refrigerator and found one slice left. She ate it cold, standing, the way June had eaten a slice in the month pies were contaminated. Cold was information. The information was that the pie had been cut and shared and survived the night. Survived was the measure. Derrick came in and took none. He had coffee. Coffee was his. The slice was hers. Division was peaceful. Vanessa texted that her feet were fine. Feet was the old joke. Patrice sent a period. Periods were a dialect she shared with no one and also with the morning. Imani did not text. Not texting was a shift. Shifts were allowed. The house did not require a performance to be true. True was the names. Lorraine. Imani. The money that had stopped being extra. The call that stayed. The chair that was a chair in a stack. Patrice rinsed the plate. The plate was ordinary. Ordinary was the win. She had carried a tin back to the kitchen once, uncut, and the carry had been the start. The start had become a slice eaten cold. She could live in that distance. She did. The dining room waited, ugly and true, no empty place set. She did not set one. Setting one would have been a scene. Scenes were retired. She turned the light off. The off was a skill. The day proceeded without a secret at the left hand of the table. That was the whole story. It was enough.
Derrick told his mother, in the only way left, by keeping the carbons she had kept and then by not needing them. He told Patrice that. Patrice said your mother kept the evidence and your sister spent it. He said yes. She said then we are the after. After was a accurate name for the marriage. They used it privately. Publicly they were a table that cut the pie first. First was policy. Policy was love in a boring coat. The coat was off. Vanessa was seated. The daughter was in Dayton on a shift or not. The first wife was a file and a frame and a woman who had said she was not sorry the girl existed. Patrice was not sorry either. Sorry was the wrong tool. The tool had been the sentence. Before we say grace. It had been said. The grace after that was short. Who is here. She could pray that. She did, some years, and some years the slices were the prayer. Both counted. The chair did not. The chair was a chair. She left it in the stack. The stack was the ending. Ordinary. Known. Enough.
June came the next week and ate the last of nothing, because the slice was gone. Patrice made eggs. Eggs were not a symbol. They ate at the table. The left side was a chair with a person, June, not a secret. Derrick was at work. Work was a day shift. Vanessa was at her own sink. Dayton was at a hospital. The map was accurate. Accurate was the campaign completed. June said you look like you slept. Patrice said I did. Slept was a report. Reports were the new thanksgiving. They did not replay the tin. The tin was washed and put away. Away was correct. A nephew texted a score. Patrice did not answer. Not answering a score was allowed. The house did not owe the game a cheer. The cheer had been only a play, once, and that had been enough to teach her the difference. She knew the difference. She rinsed the pan. June dried. Drying was the grammar, borrowed. The day was ordinary. Ordinary was the win she had wanted when she carried the pie back to the stove and let it cool. It had cooled. The years had cooled. The names had stayed. That was the correct temperature. She lived at it.