Two Tables
The May 2026 Letter
I write this letter sitting at a kitchen table that belonged to my sister. She got it from our aunt, who received it from another family member.
Now it's in my home.
I like the feel of it. I like writing at it, eating at it, visiting at it. I always found the previous table we had a little uncomfortable. I’d bang my elbows on the armrests, the height of the table was a little too high, and I got sore quickly sitting in the chairs. This one feels right. Like a place I could actually work.
Sitting here, I think about the table I was writing at last May.
We were in Montreal. It was a little coffee shop with room for no more than a bench, a counter, and a kitchen. The only tables were outside in the sun. I'd go there in the morning to journal and watch the world go by. Kids going to school, bikes and cars and trucks zipping by, birds snacking on crumbs from my pastry.
My life was changing.
We were in the city for my daughter's graduation. Back home, my sister was in the hospital after her failed second surgery. I wasn’t quite aware that Judy had only a few months to live, but I knew she and Mom didn’t have much time left. To top it off, we had a forest fire heading towards the family cabin.
I needed a change. I didn’t want to teach anymore. I wanted to write—most likely to sort out how I was feeling. And I didn’t want a lot. Just short stories that I could fit into the corners of my life.
For the past year, I’ve worked towards it. But life kept happening. I had committed to teach one more semester, then things with Judy got worse, then handling her matters after she passed, then Mom passed. And on top of it, I still have the fifth book to finish with Counios and Gane.
But now, as I sit at this table, I am near the end of many things.
My sister’s affairs are almost wrapped up. We’ve moved the last of my sister’s belongings out of her condo, and I’ll be handing over the keys to her place in the next couple of days.
My mother's funeral is planned for the middle of this month. Most of her affairs were in order before she got too sick, so they won’t require much. By the end of May, it will be pretty much done—eighteen months of caregiving, or longer if you count the years of driving up every weekend to check on Mom when she still lived on her own.
I still have to finish the novel, but that should be in July. However, after that, not much.
There's an emptiness there that I will have to face. No more distractions, no more excuses. I'll have to sit in the discomfort of figuring it out.
It's a little scary, if I'm honest.
But for now, I still have work to do, and when those later days come, I'll be at my table, hopefully able to find the words.
Until next time,
David