December 6, 2025 (a Saturday)

The Old Maple Table
(in memory of GFS)

My grandmother’s table 
is now gone. Donated.

We spent our entire
married life at that table.

By the end, his elbows
had worn away its finish.

In the beginning, he sanded 
through three decades

of dulled stain, restoring
its maple metallic sheen –

Gold as the forest it 
came from – gold as our 
new union.

Painted the legs white
in the fashion of the day;

and there spent our meals,
made our modest plans –

a history of dogs stirring
and restive at our feet.

The first decade building;
the second spent managing –

Long conversations over
coffee & tea, through

the smoke of his
ubiquitous cigarettes –

My decompression
from work,
his slow exhale of life.