Chapter 26 - The blue table
Mom gave me the chipped blue breakfast table when she moved.
I did not want it.
“Why would I want that?”
“Because it’s a table.”
“It had me handcuffed to it.”
“The chair did.”
“Mom.”
She smiled.
“You always liked this table.”
I had.
My father refinished it when I was nine.
The blue paint came later.
I took it.
The wooden chair was not the same one.
Police had retained it temporarily.
Eventually Mom threw it away.
The table moved into my house.
For six months I used it as a place for unopened mail.
Then one morning Tyler visited.
He brought groceries.
Coffee.
Eggs.
Blueberries.
I stared into the bag.
He said:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
We cooked breakfast.
Sat at the blue table.
Tyler touched the chip on one corner.
“Same one?”
“Yes.”
He went quiet.
Then:
“I’m sorry I called him.”
I had heard this before.
“Tyler.”
“I know. He chose.”
“Yes.”
“But I still called.”
“And now what?”
He looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
“What are you going to do with that forever?”
He had no answer.
Neither did I.
May you like
So we ate.
Sometimes guilt gets smaller only when breakfast is more interesting.
