She walked in, cooked and did what she needed to do.
Midweek guests not throwing a cramp in her style.
Sipping the wine, stirring the pot and setting up the goodies.
No stress. No issues. Just another easy evening with family, a beautiful table and the warmth of her heart symbolized on a plate.
She’s giving this way.
She doesn’t hold back, realizing that more is simply that, more.
She journeys through the road of generosity as easily as she crosses the avenue of affection.
To be caught in this crossroad with her is a gift I’ve never taken for granted.
How lucky is the man who finds near perfection in the imperfection of a typical Wednesday night?
How many Wednesday nights such as these have I lived?
I think it’s been too many to count as the quotient of lucky overwhelms me today.
This day of 24 always makes me melancholy every year as I remember my long departed Dad.
I think upon the joys I would have wanted to share with him and how he would have sat at our table last night.
The collision of my gratitude for her and my longing for him, these two orbs of affection meeting somewhere in the middle of my full heart, render me a sentimental fool.
There they exist, two different, palpable loves hosting celebrations on a day rampant with absence and thankfulness all in one swoop.
I’ve missed out, he’s missed out. The sighs of destiny making their silent protestations as I hold back my adult tears.
Yet what continues to bother me most, especially as more years elapse, is that he never got to meet her and that our table, the one we could offer in our adult home, has never held a place setting for him.