What is time but us speaking across time.
My dining table is a reflection of the artisans who crafted it. The teak planks shaved and edged by men half a century ago.
The pieces chosen just for this moment.
As I lift my coffee to my lips I see the golden streaks of the weaver reflecting from the dream sun. They made this moment for me and I too shall make moments for future men.
The scratches borne of previous owners.
A woman in Arizona crocheting in the dry air conditioned living room draws the needle hard across the middle plank. Now it’s like art to me. It cuts across the Danish man’s selected plank for its ebb and flow of the wood grain.
As I sit the poor souls in the hospital near me breathe heavily into masks for breath and for protection. Focus and fear, hope and horror. A lovely mix. A dark storm.
I’m supposed to sit here locked in time with my table, the Danish worker, and the wife. We are at this table talking through time.
3/20/20