The Family Dinner

The kitchen smelled like bread and butter and something warm. Elena's mother had set the table for five. There were only four of them tonight — Elena, her mother, her grandmother, and little Marco. But the fifth plate was still there, set at the head of the table. "Who is that plate for?" Elena asked. Her mother looked at her grandmother. Her grandmother smiled softly. "For the one who is coming home," her grandmother said. Elena didn't ask who. She knew. She always knew. They held hands around the table. Her grandmother said a prayer — a long one, with words for everyone. For Elena's mother who worked so hard. For Marco who was learning to walk. For the ones who weren't there. For the one who was coming home. Then they ate. The food wasn't very much — bread and soup and a little bit of cheese. But they ate slowly, and they talked, and every few minutes her grandmother would look at the empty plate and smile. When Elena went to bed, she asked her mother: "Is he really coming home?" Her mother kissed her forehead. "Every prayer sets a place for the one we love," she said. "And every place we set brings them a little closer." Elena fell asleep thinking about that — the table set with not enough chairs, and the fifth plate, and how prayers were like places set at a table. They made room for what you hoped for. They made room for God to show up. And sometimes, if you set enough places, He did.