A Very Short Joy

Setting Our Tables in Times of Sorrow

A table somewhere in Italy.

Thanks to the new subscribers, Amy, Marie, Maurice, and Anna. I’m glad to see you here.

Today’s very short post is an extension of last week’s “A Very Short Sorrow.” If you haven’t read it, start there.

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A Very Short Joy

But for all the sorrows, there is still this: On Saturday, a drive through the Boston Mountains. The oaks raise rust-colored arms as if pushing back or holding up a sky that is so Carribean-colored, I wonder whether the world is upside down. Am I an ant on the world’s ceiling looking down at an infinite ocean?

In the back of the U-Haul, a table cut from Louisiana wood wobbles on ancient legs. How many years old is it? Fifty? One Hundred? I’ve never asked, but this is the only table I remember from my childhood, the one where my mother’s family gathered in the room overlooking Bayou Desiard. At that table, we watched mallards take flight, argued politics, welcomed babies, planned two funerals. I dumped a plat of butter on that table once, and the family laughed till their tears stained the wood. I wonder whether I can still make out the grease spot.