“How do you spell that?” I asked my artist wife.
Her response was a facepalm followed by a slightly annoyed look.
Minutes earlier, I had drawn her into a conversation about her favorite historical artists. We were sitting at our kitchen table following dinner one spring evening. The sun was setting outside the window at the end of the table.
As it continued to descend, she didn’t seem too keen on my interest, especially since she knows how much I “enjoyed” my university Art History course. Hint: Not. One. Bit.
It was an early spring morning. The sun had risen two hours earlier. The birds were chirping in the 10-foot conifer outside our bedroom window. And the sky was crystal clear over our lazy crescent in our western Canadian Prairie suburb.
I was peacefully lying awake in bed, enjoying its body-hugging comfort early that morning. Our son was playing video games in the basement family room while our daughter was at the kitchen table creating yet another pencil drawing to add to my growing collection of “daughter art.”
It never stood a chance.
We recently renovated our kitchen and the last piece was the kitchen table.
The old kitchen table was a giant, dark brown behemoth that served us well.
Many family meals were enjoyed there. Christmas breakfasts, Easter dinners, and birthday cakes came and went.