Bread upon the table, fire on the hearth, the door stands open to the dark, a place for every name. The year has worn its way around to the night I keep for them. I swept the floor at sundown, set out the best I have. The fire is built the old way, the way he taught my hands. The door stands open on the dark, and I sit down to wait. They come the way they always come, no sound upon the floor. The dark comes in behind them through my open door. The ones I did it for are here. They line the walls and wait. Not one of them sits down to eat. Not one takes off the cold. The word is ready in my mouth, the one that calls it right. All year I keep it whetted the way you keep a knife. I bring the bread to the old one first, the first place always his. I hold it out. I hold it out. Nothing leaves my hand. He stands before the fire I built and takes none of the warm. He looks at me the way he looked when I first got it wrong. Nothing takes the bread. Nothing takes the warm. My dead stand at my table, and the name stays mine. Bread keeps till morning. Names keep longer than bread. I turn and face the old one: "You knew what it would cost. You carried the same bargain. Call it what I called it." The open door stands empty, the places all stand bare. The fire burns for no one, and nobody says my word. Nothing took the bread. Nothing took the warm. My dead have left my table, and the name stays mine. Bread upon the table, fire down to embers, the door still open to the dark, a place for every name. Next year again, and every year. The name lies down with me.
