The smell of spices linger in the air as plates line either side of the long, wooden table. The once pristine white porcelain has been dirtied by a variety of different colored splotches in accordance with the different foods served.
The dark red of the homemade cranberry sauce, the liquid having seeped everywhere as it had been eaten in a hurry. The large bowl in the center of the table is almost empty, the same red sauce marring the edges of the top and inside of the green vessel. Almost as if it had held something of great importance that had been stolen, the last few berries inside gleam as they sit in a pool of their own. A silver spoon rests against the side to watch over them, looking equally bloody as the sun sets.
What’s left of a carved ham rests on a decorative plate, the cylindrical bone still sticking out of the meat, pale against the dark pink of the carefully prepared and carved meat. Amongst the dirty plates are slivers of the same dark pink, as a reminder of the meal that had happened not long before the table had also been abandoned.
Two tall candles still burn as a testimony to what had happened, flames flickering under the glow of the muted sun coming through the windows. The faint smell of garlic is coming from a red bowl that seems to have been completely forgotten by whomever had eaten. Within is a pile of white, green and ivory specks breaking the bleak cover from everywhere. A wooden spoon rests within, it had been meant to help serve part of the meal, although the food had been barely touched compared to the other almost empty dishes. Then again, garlic potatoes do seem to be a rather odd thing to serve, isn’t it? Especially at a holiday such as Christmas feast. Yet here it is, lying between the bowl of abandoned cranberries and the almost devoured ham. Perhaps even odder is what is lying behind it. A casserole container, glass that is, rests empty save a few marks of orangish-brown. The smell of brown sugar lingers in the air, as if it wants to help you understand what the container once housed. A plate in front of it is the one to reveal the answer, sweet potato casserole. The scoop lays there, orange-brown of what was once sweet-potatoes are hidden under a layer of mini-marshmallows, the small cylinders of sugar tight against one another to form an efficient barrier of white.
The smell of spices is stronger, making it quite apparent as to where it is coming from. A bowl with a small heap of homemade stuffing inside stands out against the other brightly colored foods, or what’s left of them. The light brown squares look like small croutons that are sprinkled with spices, leaving the air to smell of them.
Underneath all of the dishes is a somehow still ivory cloth, a dark green table runner somehow still untouched as they protect the table. Further inspection reveals the design of it, a forest scene that stretches from one side to the other, ended by a tassel made full from the many strands of fabric. Dishes, some dirtier than others will have to get cleaned up, but in time. For now the mess awaits, the people long gone, leaving their mark in the wake.