Whispers at the Table
Whispers at the Table


In the quiet corners of the gathering,
Shadows linger like old secrets,
Where smiles are stitched from thin threads,
And the warmth is cold beneath the surface.
The table is set with silver spoons,
And laughter dances over crystal water,
But beneath the crusty bread and turkey skin,
There’s a biting edge to every word.
Eyes dart like sparrows,
Measuring every move, every smile—
A silent court with judgments sharp
And no gavel to call them to order.
The hands that clasp across the table
Are not always prayerful, not always kind.
They reach for the food, or perhaps the dagger,
In the subtle tug-of-war for pride.
Meanness doesn’t come in rage;
It comes in the well-practiced smile,
The gentle remark, heavy with insinuation—
The poison dipped in honey,
Dripped in smal
l, deliberate drops.
They know your flaws, your history,
The missteps that sting and linger—
And they drag them out like old bones,
Polished under the bright lights of expectation.
A family, a table, a toast,
But the water doesn’t wash the bitterness away.
The years slip through these rooms
Like smoke through broken windows,
And the mean ones stay,
Not in loud curses or tantrums,
But in the way they make you small,
One word at a time.
Perhaps you will leave with your hands full,
Not with gifts, but with the echoes—
The whispers that trail like ghosts
Long after you close the door.
Some ghosts never leave the house.
They linger in reflections,
At the bottom of water glasses,
In the shadow of family traditions
That felt like homes but were hollow.