Thanksgiving

The Extra Plate

Every year, Grandma set one more place at the table than the family needed. “For whoever shows up,” she’d say.

Most years it stayed empty. Then, one Thanksgiving, a neighbor knocked on the door—an older man whose oven had died and whose kids lived far away. He stood on the porch holding a still-warm pie, unsure if he should stay.

“Come in,” Grandma said, and pointed to the extra plate.He sat down quietly.

Halfway through the meal he started talking—about the first car he ever fixed, about the way his wife used to hum while she cooked. The table got louder. Someone laughed. Someone else passed him the rolls without being asked.

When he left, he turned at the door and said, almost to himself, “I forgot what it felt like to be expected.

”After that, Grandma never called it the extra plate again. She just called it the one that was already waiting.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.