2/22/22
My mother's table was passed down
Grooves and shine, edges worn from hands moving
My mother's table wasn’t always a dinner table
It began as a massage table, big enough for the human body
We laugh about the taboo of eating where bodies were once naked
My mother’s table is almost never wiped clean
We forget
My mother’s table was once my Mimi's table
Now she has a cheap IKEA table, wobbly and dark oak
Her dogs weave through the legs
A man used to sit at the head
He would chew with his mouth open wide
“We eat better when you stay the night” he would say to me
She would roll her eyes and hand me big plates of spaghetti and glasses of milk
When he passed, he passed February 22nd 2022 at 2 pm
2/22/22
2 pm
2 was never a lucky number
My mother’s table has a 2 carved in the bottom but only I can see it
It glows when I sit down
My mother says she feels his presence wherever she goes
But she doesn't know about the glowing 2
My Mimi’s table is missing a supporting beam, which means you can’t set plates in the middle
Which is fine
Because we never eat there anymore
When we do we feel sick and we can’t remember the number that comes between 1 and 3