Bury the Dead

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It's the first Thanksgiving since Grandpa died.

This morning Gretchen put the extra leaf in the table, pushed and wiggled chairs so that it would seat a crowded-on-one-side seven. The new tablecloth--Gretchen bought it last week without consulting anyone or anything beyond her own pleasure--is spread, and on it sit silver and the best china. Trivets wait for mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, and corn. The turkey is dismembered, keeping warm in the oven. Gretchen is ready.

Her younger son Peter has arrived, and Gretchen's new daughter-in-law, Jill. And Jill's daughter, six-year-old Sydney, a small, quiet creature in a white sailor dress. Sydney had gained Gretchen's immediate sympathy when she'd come in, looked at the table, and said, I like your pink tablecloth , even before she'd taken off her coat.

"Have you tried Bill's cell?" asks Jill. They're all hungry, but they can't start without Gretchen's other son.

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