I can recall the long-ago image of a leftover casserole
meticulously wrapped and stashed in the fridge
only to be ravaged during some nocturnal scavenger hunt.
Our family kitchen became a place to linger,
in the present moment, all hours of the day.
Now when I open the refrigerator door
the light from inside illuminates my memory:
wooden chairs pushed close together
stitched oval placemats and soft tablecloths
the clanging of glasses and silverware
the bountiful dishes passed around
the medley of tastes and temperaments
as we squabble and laugh
and then, hours later, the plates are piled high
Such a glorious meal of abundant love.
the fragrance of dew 