The Host

A long table at the end of a warm day, laid with everything you made. You fill every plate but your own. There's a seat there for you, pulled out, still empty — and you keep meaning to take it.
A level, unhurried piece about the seat you keep meaning to take, and what it asks of you to finally sit down in it.

Transcript

The light is low and gold. Close your eyes. Let it come up around you. The kind of light that comes at the end of a long warm day. Thick and slow. Heavy as something poured. In front of you there is a table. Long. Set and end. The gold light pulled on it. Let it fill. Everything on it you made. The good bread. The best of what you had. You did not stint. You laid it all out. Take a breath. Let it out slow. And let the day settle in the room. And again. You have set a table like this more times than you could count. Before you had the words for it. You knew how to do this. Around the table, It is warm. And it is not empty. There are others here. You feel them at the edges of the light. Waiting on you. So you begin. You always begin. And you feel it. And it goes out into the warm. Taken up by a hand you don't quite see. And gone. Another. You fill it, And it goes. This part asks nothing of you. There is no strain in it. The plates go out one after another. And each one that leads you. Is a small clean. Pleasure. Someone has what you made. Keep on. The giving was never the hard part. Come around the table now. To where you started. There is a place set here. One place. A plate. And a seat pulled out. Laid the same as all the others. It is yours. You set it for yourself when you set the rest. You mean to take it. You have meant to all along. In a moment. When the rest are seen too. You'll come back and take your place. But each time you pass it. There is one more plate to fill. One more hand at the edge of the light. And your own seat stays pulled out and empty. And you go buy it again. There is a hunger in you. Your husband the whole time. You have been serving around it. Filling plate after plate. And passing your own place by. Without quite letting yourself notice. The seed is still there. Still pulled out. Still yours. Stand at your own place a moment. Don't fill another plate. Just stand where the seat is empty. With all of it laid out. And the gold in front of you. Every other sea is full now. Everyone at the edge has what you made. One question. Ask it once. What keeps you out of your own seat. Leave it at your empty place. The way a plate waits for someone who hasn't come. Stay standing at your place a moment more. The table is still full. Nothing on it has cooled. That was never going to run out. You have more than enough. You always did. And the giving doesn't end on its own. There is no end in it. As long as there are plates and hands at the edge of the light. It runs. There are always more. It would run the rest of your life. You know that. You have half counted on it. The one thing that ends it is you. Sitting down. Not being waited on. No one comes around with a plate for you. That was never the thing. The thing is harder than being served. You have to take the seat yourself. Sit down and be one of the people this was made for. To sit down is to be seen with it. To let someone at the edge look over and find you there. And not moving. The table stays set. Whatever happened at it just now, It keeps. You come back to the place you are in. Your own hands, Resting. The breath still going, Slow and steady. The seat is still yours. You laid it. It'll be here. When you are ready. To leave the table. Let your eyes open.