Sobremesa

Lyrics

The last fork is down.

The battlefield is quiet now.
The ghosts of paella and roasted lamb.
A red wine stain on the linen, a new continent mapped by my brother in 1987.
Empty plates, pushed aside like solved problems.
The water glasses are sweating.
The scent of garlic and paprika has settled into the wood of this table,
our oldest friend.

This is the time after time.
Not the meal, but the meaning.
The plates are cleared but no one moves.
The chairs hold us. The coffee holds us.
This is the sobremesa.
The table time.

Abuela watches from the head of the table.
She hasn't spoken in ten minutes, but she is conducting the orchestra.
The talk shifts from the weather to a secret.
From politics to a quiet confession about a boy named Javier.
The clink of demitasse cups is the only percussion.
My cousin's laugh, a sudden bird in the room.

This is the time after time.
Not the meal, but the meaning.
The plates are cleared but no one moves.
The chairs hold us. The coffee holds us.
This is the sobremesa.
The table time.

They say you can't bottle this.
The way my uncle's eyes soften when he tells that old joke.
The shared glance between my mother and her sister.
The weight of a hand on a forearm.
This is the slow work.
The weaving of the net that will catch us when we fall,
long after this Sunday is gone.

The afternoon light slants across the flan dish.
Gold in the empty glass.
Another hour gone.
No one has looked at a watch.
The table time.