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Fossils of Oak
We bought it at an estate sale.
It stood there, silent in its corner, not accustomed to so many strangers in its home.
We paid the $10 asking-price, loaded it in my pickup truck, and set out for home. We were like pirates sailing away with their loot. Or at least that's the way I felt.
It was a three-legged table, about waist high and pocked with years of use and abuse. But, it was solid oak and of sturdy design and had stood firm against the attacks of the years.
And it was the first thing the two of us had ever purchased together.
We took it home, stripped away the stain and varnish and sanded out what scars we could. This transformation made it new again --- and truly ours. A new stain and a new coat of varnish and its adoption was final.
When it had fully dried, Beth and I stood there, admiring our work. Beth began to look about to find the table a home within our home. She placed it in front of a living room window, a fern atop it cascading to the floor.
Since then it's been shoved from room to room. It's held flowers, magazines, coaster sets. It's top has been flooded with water and beer and has served as a canvas for the Crayola creations of pint-sized Picassos.
Like a steel-jawed boxer, the table has taken it all and come back for more. While sofas, dining tables, televisions and wallpapers have come and gone, it remains. Over the past 20 years, we've prospered enough to buy nice things and some might say the old oaken table doesn't fit the décor.
It fits just fine.
Or it did until this morning.
It wasn't a good morning. It was raining out and the darkness was penetrating --- mood altering. I had to cancel my golf game and Beth postponed shopping with her mom. With the girls away at college, it was just the two of us.
So we sat, steeping in the disappointment of canceled plans.
"Well, if this isn't some shitty weather," I said, putting aside the morning paper. "I guess I should get moving and do something."
"Yes, I guess you should."
The words burned into me.
"And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Whatever you want it to."
She was pushing me. She knew full well how.
"Oh, so you're Miss On-Top-Of-Things, huh? Gee, I could have sworn I saw last night's dirty dishes in the sink this morning. In fact, I think they're still in there. Why don't you get off your lazy ass and wash them?!"
She never moved a muscle. But her eyes, which had been focused on a magazine, cut toward me. They narrowed in rage. Fury flushed her face.
Just then, Leroy, our red Doberman, wondering what all the fuss was about, came loping around the corner.
He didn't make the turn.
Instead, he crashed into the old oaken table, the full weight of him landing on top of it.
Sensing trouble, the dog found his footing and hurried away.
Beth and I rushed to the table. It was if one of our children lay injured. Beth picked up a leg that had been pulled violently from the tabletop. I reached for the top, only to discover that it, too, had been broken.
We knelt there, archaeologists holding the earliest fossils of our own beginning.
"It can't be fixed, can it?"
"All we can do is try."
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