A vintage cloth.
A family memory.
Crafted by hands
long stilled.
A bit faded.
Somewhat worn.
Faint traces of
celebratory wine
only adding to its value
in our eyes.
Its presence a gift,
calling up the memory 
of those who
once sat around
other Christmas tables.
Their voices now silent.
But the cloth contains
the magic of memory.
Conjuring up a whiff
of something savory.
A faint hum of conversation.
Of argument. Of laughter.
Of lights that twinkled
and candles that glowed
in other places
in times long past.