clean.
My kitchen table is technically an heirloom, gifted to me by my grandmother. She kept it in pristine condition, carefully wiping down the tabletop, chair arms and sides after each use. I remember a small white bath mat placed under my grandfather's chair, to catch any food that fell as he ate.
It stopped being regularly cleaned the week it was covered in paperwork: the death certificate, old photos, photocopies of letters and documents, my grandfather's checkbook, shopping lists and things to do between my grandfather's final breath and his funeral. Moving the paperwork would have disorganized everything, and my grandmother was too consumed with grief and busyness to pay close attention to the table.
Eventually, when she decided to move, the table was disassembled, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap and heavy blankets, and carried into my apartment.
It was clean for a long time in my home, save for the faint scratch marks from the cats sitting on top of it, obsessively cleaning their paws.
Then a baby was here, sitting atop the table in her baby chair, far more enchanted with every new sight and sound than the freshly wiped wood beneath her.
After the first few spills - baby food, soft oatmeal, finger painting, the marker drawings at the head of the table - I would rush to clean, as if it dishonored my grandmother to have a fingerprint or dried milk on the table. I wanted to be worthy of the inheritance, to prove that I deserved this precious gift with its infinite memories of Total Raisin Bran, the Red Sox, family updates, late night card games, bowls of cherry pits and pistachio shells, puzzles extending the entire width of the table.
Was I afraid that my new memories would cake over the old ones if I didn't scrub hard enough?
This Christmas, I watched my 2-year-old and her friends happily dip mini spatulas into icing that dripped across the table as they decorated cookies. I watched them lick frosting off their fingers and drip some onto the pale green seat cushions. I watched them eat messy cookies with both hands, then use these same hands to turn themselves around on the chairs. Despite the paper tablecloth I'd taped down on all sides, I ended up on my hands and knees, scratching off dried frosting, rubbing cleaners into the color left behind by artificial dyes, begging the stains in the seat cushions to come out.
I finally stopped and laughed, thinking, "Grampy would be so thrilled to know this table is full of life again, is frequented by friends, family, and so many children, is covered in reminders of fun and exploration. Grammy would be less thrilled by this mess."
Tonight, the table is covered in drying finger paintings, the bold and excited creations of a toddler so full of life it overwhelms me, knocking me down as I hear her singing "Blackbird" to herself, inventing stories about a big slimy squid, meticulously caring for her many baby dolls. She never knew my grandfather, and while she knows my grandmother (to her, "GG"), she cannot see either of them sitting on opposite ends of the table eating breakfast. She cannot see my grandfather and me sneaking olives and croutons off the salad before my grandmother was ready to serve it. She cannot see the dishes and platters spread out for the first dinner with my then boyfriend, now husband. She cannot see the painful conversations, the slipping memory, the eyes darting around the room. She cannot see the belly laughs, the strawberries with the tops cut off, the artfully displayed cheese and crackers, the newspaper carefully folded up on one corner, the rotating lineup of table runners and table cloths, the porcelain fruit bowl centerpiece, the stack of bills in my grandfather's name that needed to be dealt with.
All she sees is her mother on one side, her father on one end, flanking her. She sees her bowl of blackberries, her scrambled eggs, her special Christmas placemat, her cup of milk that we remind her to hold with two hands, her drawings and paintings from the day, her Eric Carle bowl that she fills with two different cereals at once, then tips to her mouth as she drinks the milk, most of it dripping down her chin. She sees us saying grace, talking about our days, reminding her to sit carefully so her legs don't get stuck in the back of the chair.
In my daughter's world, this table might as well have been constructed just for her. She has her whole life to live here—serious talks, tearful confessions, excited whispering, advice both solicited and not, anxious dinners to introduce us to someone, lazy pancakes after sleepovers, late night studying, declarations of her bold plans.
All of this is in the future—as much in the future as the pistachio shells are in the past—and what is here now is messier and more beautiful than I could have imagined.
So I relax about the cleaning, somehow less anxious to wipe away these memories. With my fingernail I scratch drops of dried red paint off the table. I catch sight of a few pink spots, and a faint red line that might be marker. My wrist grazes the textured and ever-so-slightly sticky area where my daughter usually sits for dinner. I wipe it down, but I am not worried about forgetting what made this table special. Its place in my memory will always make it special, even as new memories etch their way across the top and the sides. I am lucky enough to have both sets of memories, and to sit at a table where life is again blooming out of loss, where no matter how hard I try, a part of this table will never wipe clean.
It stopped being regularly cleaned the week it was covered in paperwork: the death certificate, old photos, photocopies of letters and documents, my grandfather's checkbook, shopping lists and things to do between my grandfather's final breath and his funeral. Moving the paperwork would have disorganized everything, and my grandmother was too consumed with grief and busyness to pay close attention to the table.
Eventually, when she decided to move, the table was disassembled, wrapped carefully in bubble wrap and heavy blankets, and carried into my apartment.
It was clean for a long time in my home, save for the faint scratch marks from the cats sitting on top of it, obsessively cleaning their paws.
Then a baby was here, sitting atop the table in her baby chair, far more enchanted with every new sight and sound than the freshly wiped wood beneath her.
After the first few spills - baby food, soft oatmeal, finger painting, the marker drawings at the head of the table - I would rush to clean, as if it dishonored my grandmother to have a fingerprint or dried milk on the table. I wanted to be worthy of the inheritance, to prove that I deserved this precious gift with its infinite memories of Total Raisin Bran, the Red Sox, family updates, late night card games, bowls of cherry pits and pistachio shells, puzzles extending the entire width of the table.
Was I afraid that my new memories would cake over the old ones if I didn't scrub hard enough?
This Christmas, I watched my 2-year-old and her friends happily dip mini spatulas into icing that dripped across the table as they decorated cookies. I watched them lick frosting off their fingers and drip some onto the pale green seat cushions. I watched them eat messy cookies with both hands, then use these same hands to turn themselves around on the chairs. Despite the paper tablecloth I'd taped down on all sides, I ended up on my hands and knees, scratching off dried frosting, rubbing cleaners into the color left behind by artificial dyes, begging the stains in the seat cushions to come out.
I finally stopped and laughed, thinking, "Grampy would be so thrilled to know this table is full of life again, is frequented by friends, family, and so many children, is covered in reminders of fun and exploration. Grammy would be less thrilled by this mess."
Tonight, the table is covered in drying finger paintings, the bold and excited creations of a toddler so full of life it overwhelms me, knocking me down as I hear her singing "Blackbird" to herself, inventing stories about a big slimy squid, meticulously caring for her many baby dolls. She never knew my grandfather, and while she knows my grandmother (to her, "GG"), she cannot see either of them sitting on opposite ends of the table eating breakfast. She cannot see my grandfather and me sneaking olives and croutons off the salad before my grandmother was ready to serve it. She cannot see the dishes and platters spread out for the first dinner with my then boyfriend, now husband. She cannot see the painful conversations, the slipping memory, the eyes darting around the room. She cannot see the belly laughs, the strawberries with the tops cut off, the artfully displayed cheese and crackers, the newspaper carefully folded up on one corner, the rotating lineup of table runners and table cloths, the porcelain fruit bowl centerpiece, the stack of bills in my grandfather's name that needed to be dealt with.
All she sees is her mother on one side, her father on one end, flanking her. She sees her bowl of blackberries, her scrambled eggs, her special Christmas placemat, her cup of milk that we remind her to hold with two hands, her drawings and paintings from the day, her Eric Carle bowl that she fills with two different cereals at once, then tips to her mouth as she drinks the milk, most of it dripping down her chin. She sees us saying grace, talking about our days, reminding her to sit carefully so her legs don't get stuck in the back of the chair.
In my daughter's world, this table might as well have been constructed just for her. She has her whole life to live here—serious talks, tearful confessions, excited whispering, advice both solicited and not, anxious dinners to introduce us to someone, lazy pancakes after sleepovers, late night studying, declarations of her bold plans.
All of this is in the future—as much in the future as the pistachio shells are in the past—and what is here now is messier and more beautiful than I could have imagined.
So I relax about the cleaning, somehow less anxious to wipe away these memories. With my fingernail I scratch drops of dried red paint off the table. I catch sight of a few pink spots, and a faint red line that might be marker. My wrist grazes the textured and ever-so-slightly sticky area where my daughter usually sits for dinner. I wipe it down, but I am not worried about forgetting what made this table special. Its place in my memory will always make it special, even as new memories etch their way across the top and the sides. I am lucky enough to have both sets of memories, and to sit at a table where life is again blooming out of loss, where no matter how hard I try, a part of this table will never wipe clean.