She folds it into a soft square,
her hands weaving intention with linen,
a secret stowed beneath the everyday—
the chocolate wrapped like a tiny prize,
or the postcard, an old carnival scene,
its cracked edges whispering other years.
Napkins billow like quiet sails beside
the plates, unsuspecting in their silence.
And there she is, conjuring these small
delights, as if a meal itself cannot
contain enough of her affection. This
ritual of hers, like slipping a coin
into the pocket of time. We unfold
her surprises, unwrapping her kindness,
the sweetness melting or a place captured
on paper pulling us far from the table.