Unfolding and waving the tablecloth over the table slows me and puts me into mind of other women doing wash, hanging laundry on the line, ironing, folding, sewing. I am in the dining room -- once Dennis's office -- by the big window looking out to the snow, the apple tree, and Lisa's house and I am happily stepping away from the anxiety and peevishness of trying to catch up on so much writing that I am behind on. And I must go baste the turkey again, now.
Many years ago, some months after my mother almost died from pneumonia -- after which she finally stopped smoking -- she told me about the drug-induced dreams she had had while the doctors were trying to lower her temperature. She hadn't told my father, she said, because he wouldn't understand, but she dreamt that she was floating among unfolding bolts of fabric, the fabric waving and undulating in the air all color, texture, patterns, and sheen and her face was calm and away while she spoke and I could see what pleasure it had been in her eyes.
My friend Laurie and I lose our selves when we go to the scarf carts in the markets in Florence. My mother learned -- after years of me watching me at birthdays and Christmas peevishly opening her gifts of clothes that I never wore -- that I am easily sated on the linens she finds at garage sales, all the napkins and runners and tablecloths that many people don't want because they require ironing. I now have drawers full of her found cloth, and ironing it on Thanksgiving morning in preparation for others eating at our table is good.
The smell of the turkey has insinuated itself around and up the stairs now and into our bedroom where I write and it's time to go baste again. I am thinking of you.
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