the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily with
a mixture of bleach and
salt,
and then sluiced with clean
ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness
to it,
a wonderful tactile
memory i am still unable
to explain.
sat out on the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
it was an oval behemoth of
a thing,
would easily sit
twelve adults
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two.
excepting
when we arrive to vacation,
then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was
if you took a bit
of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats,
iregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import
or the specials of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent dissection.
i still can feel,
it's surface,
like rolling,
polished pearls.
.....no
...still not explaining it
at all well.