Smoked Corn

Smoked Corn

I can tell by the way you smile you like the corn
that was smoked on the cob. Spice bites softly,
smoke grounds it, and each kernel is another bubble
of sweetness that combines with the butter in your mouth.
No wonder we talk more together when reaching for
the next bite of burger
grilled just moments ago.

Four adults and a rectangle table. One 2-week-old
baby, soaking up all the attention. Four dogs in our
daughter’s home, plus one alone from our home too.
One ancient cat that barely moves…couch to feed dish…
15 years and fluffy. Wherever she sits is her throne.

Nothing ever goes to waste; the minutes without voices,
potato salad dropped on the floor (that’s what the pack of
dogs is for), and the easy sleep of a baby passed around
the generations at the table.

There was no prayer, but for the bounty before us gratefulness
abounded.
We sang no hymns, but the Baby Man recently entering the world
filled us with song.
And no final benediction, save for hugs and “love-yous” as
we took our leave back home.

There is sanctity in communal meals, there is holiness in the
humility we share;
these bodies do not let us live long at all without
food. We share a table, we share mortality. And so we smile
broader knowing time will not capture us, space will not define us,

And church bells only remind us that eucharist is everywhere
we eat together with seen and unseen guests.