Thus far, I just hit publish without bothering with much explanation. But, I feel compelled to say this concerns a certain beautiful and large Duncan Phyfe purchase that someone wrongly assumed equaled my entrance into the daunting and wholly unappealing world of hostessing. 😏
Dear mother-in-law, I did not
Get the big table to be
Prissy and formal, for no gracious hostess am I.
You should know by now
That is not me.
You thank me for taking your son, yet, you only pretend you know me.
The parts you built up in your own creation.
No, I got the table because it’s old,
Rich in time,
Full of history.
There is something about the tales
Etched deep into the wood
That lights me on the inside.
I’d tell you it’s one of my autistic focuses, but you’d only uncomfortably chuckle.
And shrug it off quietly- but not so subtly-as
It shouldn’t be that way, really, but there it is.
And I don’t want to deal with the rather weighty conversation at present, so I won’t.
Besides, I don’t really expect you and your proper ways
To ever fully appreciate the things that
Make me tick.
The downhome, simple, uncomplicated things
That don’t require chilled salad forks and seven courses to get through before dessert.
So long as you don’t hold your breath too long waiting
For the big dinner party of your dreams.
Because, I regret to inform you, it’ll never be.
Unless you count the visions of times past dancing through my head
As I slide my hands over the smooth surface and delight in its sheen.
I can almost see the scenes reflected in the surface.
Call me strange, to enjoy imagination over reality.
Call me anti-social, to hold a meeting with nary a living guest but me.
But it’s mine, to do with as I please.
Not for anyone else to say, after all,
What this big ol’ table means to me.