A Seat at the Table

It was a Mother's Day. I can't remember the year, but I'm sure it was before anyone had ever heard of New Coke or Max Headroom.

All the matriarchs were there. My mother, grandmother, great grandmother, and great aunt. I can't remember if that one uncle, the son of my great grandmother's sister, was there with his wife or not, but his children were. It's possible he still lived under Pinochet in a country I couldn't identify on a map until my teen years.

I never did understand what took him overseas, but I never really cared much. Still don't.

We gathered at my grandmother's house at the river. Elevated, the mobile home sat on stacks of cinder blocks, and it hadn't been mobile since before Gerald Ford stumbled his into office. I remember playing with the wheels, spinning them as fast as they'd go. Somehow I got my fingers caught in the rim, and I scraped 'em up somethin' fierce. No permanent damage or serious injury, but I remember that it hurt. I can't recall the pain, exactly, and that's a blessing of the brain, I suppose.

Pain is dulled, but hurt never really fades.

Maybe that's the one thing I'd change, if I had the power. Now-me would pull then-me away from those spinning wheels, if for no other reason than to avoid the I-told-you-so's from my grandfather. He loved me in his way, but he was a hard man. The blue of his eyes never softened with age or in memory.

I miss him anyway.

Most family gatherings happened in the home of either my great-grandmother or her other daughter. The daughter had no children of her own and more than enough space; my great aunt loved to entertain. Honestly, I think her husband really appreciated the spotlight of his seat at the head of his fancy table.

This Mother's Day was unique, though, and all the tables were round.

There's a porch that runs the entire length of the old mobile home. It still stands, along with the house, on the banks of that river. From the outside looking in, it's holding up fairly well. It's smaller than I remember, but that's to be expected, I suppose. Lines blur and sizes get fuzzy, but feelings endure. That place is a fortress, a fairy-tale castle built of pine and aluminum along an idyllic clear stream, and the reality of rusted tin and rotten timbers bordering a tea-stained torrent can't compare to memory's impressionist strokes.

That porch is where tables were set and all the guests accommodated. A feast of baked ham and casseroles was served, and homemade desserts followed. I'm sure it was a bit of a pot luck, with everyone assigned general dishes to bring, but I'm equally sure my grandmother and mother did the heavy lifting.

They always did.

I wish the one who was left still could.

That Mother's Day stands out because we sat along the banks of a perfect river on a perfect screened-in porch, enjoying perfect weather beneath slowly spinning ceiling fans in a south Georgia May. Four generations of family gathered in the one place on earth I always felt peace, and the one place on earth I can never really return.

After dessert, we swam in that river, even though it was a little high and a little cold, even for late May. My toes barely touched the sandy bottom, but cousins cannonballed and dove without a care. The floating dock bobbed and bounced under our bare feet as we climbed out and leapt back in again, and laughter echoed in ripples against the live oaks arching overhead.

The cousins remain, scattered across the southeast, now patriarchs or matriarchs in their own right. The dynasty that ruled the castle by the stream is nearly broken; only my mother and I are left, but we've given up our claim.

I've forsaken children, my mother will have no grands, and I know this hurts her. We never really mean to harm those we love, but harm happens anyway.

Pain is dulled, but hurt never really fades.

If I could travel back in time, I'd go back to that day, and live in a place where harm and hurt are distant future concerns.

I'd change things so that I could once more have a seat at the table with the people time has left behind.