Pete's Place

The table where I sit belonged to my parents, and before that, one can only guess.  We own little furniture purchased from furniture stores, but rather enjoy that whose character was honed with time, with former use by previous owners. (See?  I'm still using "we" even though I'm now "I," an idea that seems so foreign.) I sit at this dining room table in a chair that, according to family lore, was made by Pete's grandfather. Its sturdy oak frame holds solid arms and a carved back.  For years it was Pete's chair, and this spot at the table was Pete's place. Occasionally  I'd claim the area for projects requiring table space--like paying bills or monitoring our budget, wrapping gifts or preparing Christmas cards.  But it was always Pete's place whenever we enjoyed a meal here.

I think to be seated at the head of the table is like being given an honor. Even as Pete's power chair replaced the wooden one, he could view the food, the guests, the room from a broader perspective. It wasn't really a position of power, but rather one that represented caring or protection, perhaps even age or wisdom. Being at the head of the table sets one apart from the rest of the room and silently acknowledges familial hierarchy.

And so I wonder, who will sit here next?  Who will take Pete's place?  Silly I guess to ponder this, to be concerned over it.  But this choice may be the first of many we now take to fill the hole in the fabric of our family.