Hello old friends. Welcome.

Everything is arranged: the willow tree drapes its boughs across the scene, personifying grace. The crystal sparkles, the silver gleams. The snowy linens are blushing (such perfection is an affront to the gods, they think, and no good will come of it).

You will see I have taken the liberty of anagramizing your names in the placards at each place setting. Forgive my little joke. Little jokes, and the forgiveness of same, these are all I have, at present.

Welcome Meshä and Tulîg. Why yes, those are your goblets. I did steal them from your lovely home. Or maybe I just copied you, emulating your creative flair. I don’t remember now.

Find your places at the table. Drink from your goblets. I have wine aplenty.

Welcome Treste Menn, Stibs Renet, and Vyne.

Ah, Vyne. Alone, you fill the room with crimson longing. To be someone else, to live another’s life, to borrow, perhaps permanently, their desires.

You are looking unabashedly lovely tonight, all three of you. Smooth skin, clear eyes, shimmering hair.

What’s that? Mhm, I’ve considered wrinkle creams and hair dye, but can’t afford them. I’m calling my gray locks my badge of honor for reaching this age, semi-intact. No, I don’t quite believe it myself, but whatever it takes to get you through the day, yes?

Gnera and Lambe, there you are. What an ideal couple you make. I was afraid you might not be able to attend, but you made it. Late, interrupting the meal, intruding on the quiet laughter and intimate exchanges, as usual. One might even say ruining the perfect evening. Roaring across the party like dragonfire on a tinder-dry field.

Welcome, nonetheless.

It is good to see you, my companions through the years. Friends come and go, but you have never left, without coming back.

Creating a guest list gave me some pause. But I believe ultimately I did the job brilliantly. There is a place for each of you at my table, and I salute you.

Together we are, for better or for worse, a complete set.

And see, as the evening wanes into purple twilight, and we push back from our places, sated, see how the clear, cold brook runs through the field, past the weeping willow and the elegant table where we linger. Hear how the sweet sound of the naiads splashing mingles with the low thrum of our conversation, and carries the new song, orchestrated from the whole, downstream.

Images (in order of appearance) by CHUTTERSNAP @chuttersnap; REGINE THOLEN @designbytholen; thumbnail image by Ilyuza Mingazova @ilyuza