The Table My Father Made
       

I'd always thought of my father as a carpenter —
Mum having spoken with pride of the table he'd made.
If nothing else survives of him, there's this 1960's
circle of teak, shining in our front room
with its blue hydrangeas, the table my partner and I
eat from. It's scored and stained with life's easy spillages.
I have nothing else from him, except some kink
of personality, his hair and eyes, a small photo of him
and Mum and me, when we were together.
As a teenager, keeping his table felt wrong,
but some part of Brazil had been spoilt
for this table's existence, for the sun to fall on it,
fracturing into long oblongs, for hydrangea seeds
to fall, as if to a forest floor. And I liked the styling
and the idea that my father — who I haven't seen
since I was seven — had crafted the wood,
shaped it into this circle, which could be taken down,
one flap at a time, made to fit a room,
how the teak lived on with his skill and care,
even if he didn't have these qualities in abundance.
I also spoke proudly of the table, preserved it
with an eco-friendly lavender polish,
when I remembered. My partner told me,
one night, that the table was assembled from a kit,
a forerunner to IKEA. And yes, this figures,
in the way my father always said he was a doctor;
I found out he was a nurse. He was never
a doctor, never a carpenter, never dedicated himself
to one woman or one family. But this table
is what I have. And the sun still falls on it,
and I still polish it, when I remember.

Tweet
Copyright © 2021 Katrina Naomi All rights reserved
from The Manhattan Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission