Dream table
I keep dreaming of a new table.
The table is wide, flat, and rectangular. Sometimes when I think of it, it's a honey-colored wood. Sometimes it's a very trendy ash grey that I know I’ll hate in a few years. It always has a huge leaf that extends into infinity, or at least my son's gaming area.
On some days, the end of it is covered in a half-completed puzzle. A blue merle mini Aussie with arresting eyes and a derpy expression sits patiently underfoot, waiting for a falling scrap. He gets it when I gracelessly chomp down on a chocolate-covered tea biscuit, and my tongue isn’t fast enough to catch a hunk that breaks off. My black and white tri comes crashing in to find his brother licking his lips. If my husband rolled in, it’d look like I’ve already moved on to examining a new piece through my progressive lenses, but my elbow nudges another crumb into Reggie’s waiting mouth.
Other times I'm sitting on a wide bench made for three. My elbow jostles a friend good-naturedly for space while I pass a bowl of quinoa salad into outstretched hands.
I will not let Yahtzee scores get etched into this one. Although, if it were to happen, I know that someday I'd think back to a night full of laughter, Haitian rum, and detailed accounts of a world in chaos interspersed with refreshingly cold showers.
My husband sometimes stands at the head of the table, even though he’s told me he’d never felt comfortable making that his everyday spot. But on Thanksgiving, he makes an exception. He's carving into a smoked turkey he's been slaving over all day. His father stands behind him, complimenting his knife skills, a far cry from his teen years when the lines mowed into the lawn were never quite right.
My mother and father, who spent 25 years avoiding one another, sit across from one another, chatting pleasantly. It's probably about finding bigfoot or catching ghosts on film, something that I never thought in a million years they'd have in common. The ghost of my stepdad caresses my mom's back, happy that she's with her daughters.
Another time, I’m scrambling for a roll of paper towels in a race between an expanding lake of Dr. Pepper and a photo album from high school. My son and niece double over in laughter, not caring about the carnage their belly laughs and my eight-grade school photo album have left in their wake. I smile even though my empty threats to sell them to gypsies if they aren't more careful.
When the sliding door curtain is swept aside, light hits the table with my typewriter and a cup of coffee. My set up ready to type something about our last dinner party or hopes for reunions yet to be.
