the family was here.
We ate and talked of school and politics, movies and summer plans.
Someone told a joke. Someone laughed. Someone got mad.
Everyone loaded the dishwasher.
It was the type of dinner I imagined
back when mealtime meant
sippy cups, peas thrown from highchairs,
and cut-off sandwich crusts.
They’ve scattered now.
Someone’s reading, someone’s biking, someone’s online.
Alone in the kitchen, I sponge the table and try not to think about the future,
when family dinner will be a thing for holidays, at best.