Mr. Plus-One — For the Recently-Divorced Friend

Lyrics

Cream-colored cardstock. 
Heavy in my hand. 
A name on a list.

It’s a Saturday in June, the air is thick with promises. 
I see your address, a single line now, where two used to live. 
And I remember the hard math of walking into a full room alone. 
Counting the pairs, feeling the odd number of you. 
So I find my good pen, the black ink Pilot G2. 
And next to your name, I write it slow, like a prayer. 
"And Guest." 
Just a little door held open. 
An escape hatch if you need it. 
A reason to say yes.

It's just one more chair. 
It's just a little more room at the table. 
It's the quiet way of saying I saved a place for you. 
It's not a grand parade, no bugles and no drum, just an unspoken plus-one. 
A small light against the being alone.

November now. The windows are steamed from the oven's work. 
The smell of sage and roasting turkey, the sound of my brother's laugh from the living room. 
The good plates are out, the ones from my mother, with the little blue flowers. 
I count the heads, I count the settings. 
Then I walk back to the cupboard, the hinge gives a little groan. 
One more plate. 
One more water glass, polished till it shines. 
One more napkin, folded just so, for a holiday you didn't have to ask to join.

Because it's just one more chair. 
It's just a little more room at the table. 
It's the quiet way of saying I saved a place for you. 
It's not a grand parade, no bugles and no drum, just an unspoken plus-one. 
A small light against the being alone.

And when I hand you the invitation, I don't make a speech. 
I just tap my finger on the line. 
It's the gentle glance that says, I get it. 
No pity, just... the solid ground of being known. 
And when you walk in on Thanksgiving, your coat still cold from the outside, and see your name at the table, your shoulders drop. 
You can breathe here.

Pull up a seat. 
The clink of a glass. 
The murmur of conversation welcomes you in. 
You're here.