It must be the festive atmosphere, the excitement of greeting new guests, the array of food and drink on the table, the coats to remove, the carols to sing, the gifts to exchange, unwrap, marvel over, the long year’s worth of events to catch up on, the biting cold to recover from, or any number of things, but no one has noticed.
I sit at the very center of the table, surrounded on all sides by decadence: pies brimming with fruit and meat, golden potatoes piled high, glasses on glasses of creamy eggnog, spicy wassail, crisp winter wines. The glasses are moving fast among the guests, always replaced by another, and the pies require much attention, the potatoes much arranging, enough that I sit at the center of the table, and yet, no one has noticed.
Soon, it will be time. Pleasantries exchanged, coats collected, glasses clinked, all the guests will join us at the table to feast. At such time, I too will join. It was easy enough for me to stand close to the oven to collect a layer of dark ash on my feathers, easy enough to sit still and stare straight ahead, easy enough to fool everyone into believing me a roasted goose. Soon though, I will stand, stretch my legs and wings wide, and join the party. Perhaps then, when it is too late to shoo me away, force me into the oven, or rescind my tacit invitation, then someone will notice.
