The chicken is already browning in the oven. On the table there are bowls of salads, and the pies with cabbage and potatoes are neatly laid out on towels. I have a lot to do, but everything is familiar and requires no extra thought.

They arrive noisily. Brakes squeal, doors slam, and along with the frosty air, conversations and laughter rush into the house. No one stops to hug me. I simply step aside to clear the way and return to the kitchen. This place has long since become mine.

The celebration begins on its own. I bring out the dishes, set out the plates, pour the drinks, clear away empty salad bowls. At the table, toasts are made to the passing year, to plans, to health. Glasses clink over the tablecloth I embroidered back when my husband was alive. I listen and remain silent.