When I arrived home tonight, there was a new table in the dining room. The old one had been moved to my room.
That table has always existed in the middle of the dining room, with the round coffee-pot burn from one careless morning. It has existed since I was little enough to find it gargantuous, to build forts under it, to make up stories about knights around it, to stand up straight and still be able to walk under it.
With the old round table go the old tablecloths, the one Mother and Father got as a wedding present, the one on which a crystal plate broke during a Sunday lunch with relatives, the one Grandmother brought back from Bretagne.
The new table is thick and solid and rectangular and quite big.
Then again, all five of us used to be able to fit around the table that now holds one desktop computer.
That table has always existed in the middle of the dining room, with the round coffee-pot burn from one careless morning. It has existed since I was little enough to find it gargantuous, to build forts under it, to make up stories about knights around it, to stand up straight and still be able to walk under it.
With the old round table go the old tablecloths, the one Mother and Father got as a wedding present, the one on which a crystal plate broke during a Sunday lunch with relatives, the one Grandmother brought back from Bretagne.
The new table is thick and solid and rectangular and quite big.
Then again, all five of us used to be able to fit around the table that now holds one desktop computer.
1 comment:
Ah. Les temps qu'ils changent. D'abord une table. Puis la vie elle-même
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