Pierre without Kevin

Pierre’s laughter is a bowl of tropical fruits in shallow waters. This is piracy for he does not belong in the Caribbean, but he smiles like a slice of mango… reaches across the table… it is the gravy boat again. He shouldn’t, he knows it and we know it… weak heart they say… pills and chills… he smiles anyway. Between us there is death - both as the barrier and as the common bound.

Death sits in the empty chair… invited?… uninvited? There is the empty chair to my left… the empty plate… but I pour the wine anyway. Jen sits to my right and smiles like butterscotch… warmth in slow motion… listening… watching - her steady hand at the ready. Pierre speaks.

He stands, unfurling like a flag from his chair… “As the last American I salute you upon this feast, upon the warmth and generosity of the moment, and upon the love that fills this house and welcomes all who cross this step.” He turns to Jen, raises his glass, “A toast to the provider of the feast!”

Amid the murmuring of ascent Pierre taps his glass. “To her companion, the conduit of affection.” Again more murmurs and smiles… then, the moment… he turns to the empty space… “To absent friends, loved ones, cherished souls released. Gone but not forgotten.”