It was my grandparents’ table
that made me insist the engagement
be a family event. Less of a severing
than a fusion I thought, even though
we were told
this is yours now, this is just for you.
I maintained our family must be
there when we proposed marriage
because my grandparents’ dining
room table was always full.
They must have eaten alone on nights
when the home wasn’t packed with
relatives or friends but I can’t remember
that, only how the table whispered
what’s ours is yours between
chicken soup and fresh baked bread.
How it cradled you whether you were
born into the family or picked up along
the way, allowing for no misunderstanding
as it murmured
sit, stay. You are welcome here.
Hannah Napier Rosenberg is a poet who writes about experiences navigating womanhood, relationships and life in her thirties. She especially loves finding magic in the mundane. You can find her poetry blog on Instagram @hannahrowrites and get in touch by email at hannahrowrites@gmail.com.
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