The Dining Room Table

Artwork by @justjessdoing_jessthings

This piece was an experiment of not writing from a first person perspective. It also details a significant moment in my grief journey.

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I now sit in the dining room alone these days, mostly unused except for the carrier of random items. I remember being surrounded by company at least three times a day! A family of three, a father, mother, and son, would join me for meals and conversation. They would prepare a variety of dishes like pancakes as wide as plates, extremely thin, and golden brown like an unfolded crepe or arroz chaufa, a Peruvian fried rice dish with soy sauce drenched and toasted rice, mixed with scallions, eggs, and other sauteed vegetables. I witnessed the son grow up, from a small child with curly hair, round cheeks, and oval glasses to a young man taller than his parents, with  short and tapered hair, and contacts instead of glasses. The parents also grew older but never lost their enthusiasm of laughter, friendship, and love. The three continued to meet with me, until one day there were only two. Now the father eats most of his meals in front of the TV while the son eats in his room and I sit alone in the dining room, bearing the weight of discarded items.

Occasionally the two will meet with me for conversation. They will sit on my light brown chairs and reminisce about happy and sad memories. One such time, the father was sitting silently with me, papers scattered but ignored on my surface, staring at his phone when his son arrived.

“Pa, are you okay?” The son asked.

He took a deep breath and said, “I’m okay Jimmy, but no one is going to take the case.”

“What do you mean?

“Remember when I showed you mom’s scan from 2011 that showed a small shadow on her lung?”

“Yes, it even had a note from the radiologist for her primary doctor who never informed mom of the scan. So, you were going to speak with a lawyer, because that scan was five years before her cancer diagnosis.” Jimmy said.

“Right, well they just called to tell me we don’t have a case.” He said.

“Why not?”

“Because of a small technicality.” He said. “I just finished speaking to the consultant and they told me that because the shadow was very small, it was not a medical necessity for mom’s primary doctor to legally disclose it.”

“Really?” Jimmy asked.

“That’s what they said.”

“And you couldn’t find other scans that showed any signs of the cancer?” Jimmy asked.

“No, nothing until last July.” They sat in silence for a moment.

“I’m sorry pa.”Jimmy said, breaking the silence.

“I’m sorry too, boy.”

Although the mother doesn’t sit with me anymore, she does sit nearby. She stays with one of her beloved houseplants, in a tiny decorated vase. Together, we observe as the family of two continues to grow through laughter and tears. The son has a partner and she enjoys visiting with me. I’m hopeful that I’ll be dusted off and accompanied for meals again. The mother seems confident.