At the Table

An autumn colored madras tablecloth. Green china. Black napkins. Everyday stainless. No candle to interfere with the aroma of arroz con pollo just out of the oven.

Two places are set at the table: one for my husband Joey and one for me. Our boys are out late, as is more and more often the case these days. We have the house to ourselves.

He likes the chicken he says. I say, “It’s bits and pieces of that Spanish recipe your mother gave me. I didn’t have the ham or white wine.” He nods and smiles. He says he likes the capers. We both chew.

After so many years of really separate lives under one roof we are working our way back to each other—tonight at the kitchen table. The quiet of the house settles like a shawl around our shoulders. There are pauses that are awkward, yet the softness in our faces hints at optimism. For the first time in twenty years he shares a dream with me: what he’d like to do when our financial commitment to the kids is through. That was better than if he’d handed me a rose.

The clock ticks. The dog at our feet snores. We talk about work and home. We listen for the kids. We try to plan a weekend away which feels strangely like a first step for two people who have been together for a quarter century.

The table holds our dinner, holds our elbows, holds the moments where the quiet lasts too long and still there’s room for more.