I sit typing at the kitchen table. As I do so, the table rocks along on it’s old bronze wheels.
The table is like a fond old friend. Maybe the friend is drunk. Maybe the friend’s inebriation is causing the friend to feel a certain physical synchronicity with my keystrokes. Like an old friend, the table has been both enhanced and scarred by our relationship.
Tonight, however, we are merely friends.
My wife sits at the other end of the table marking papers. My dog is a few feet away, as he always is. He is sleeping. My daughters are as close as my iPhone, and as far away as their lives.
On the table are two empty wine bottles that we had begun to empt onlast Satruday. There is a bottel of malt vinegar left fron this evening’s dinner. There is some butter in a dish. Reading glasses, hand lotion, tea pot, paper clip, notebook, and of course, glasses for the wine. These are empty.
Immediately to my left and still on the table, is a notebook containing internet passwords and the notes I had made preparing to write an assignment for my Canadian Geography class. On top the chicken scrawl pages is a small six ounce terra cotta yogourt cup. The mouth of this cup is chipped. The cup is one of eight we brought back with us from France in 2006. There is a simple engraving on the side of a milkmaid and the words’La fermiere.’
This clay yogourt pot is one of my favourite cups for Whisky.
If France, they eat yogourt from little clay pots .
I have the luxury to notice these things.
I am fortunate.