The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
I dread the next place-mat leaving.

Fat lumps of butter drip from my mothers fingers
As she realizes she's once more forgotten to account for our losses.

Sugar sweet, my sister, cracks eggs for the mixture
Her smile splits her face like the line down a peach.

My brother fetches glasses and de-clutters the table,
Like a general wiping clean his strategic map.

The thing that hurts most about growing up
Is losing table settings.
First we were six,
Then five,
Now four.
And I'll be the next place-mat leaving.