In a different year, at a different table, she sat with different people. The turkey was the same, the mashed potatoes and gravy, the stuffing, the cranberry sauce--all seemingly the same, but they were made by different hands, poured into different gravy boats, mashed by different arms, seasoned by a different palate.
Though she cares for the people she sits with now, it's not the same. Different stories are told, different games are played, different rolls are forgotten in a different oven. Different voices speak in different accents, and different feet walk from kitchen to dining room.
She misses the old voices, the familiar table, the cut-glass bowl of cranberry sauce. She misses the chocolate pie, the whipped cream, the relish tray with black olives.
She misses her place in the past, her role in the family, her seat at the table.