I have a faded pink and white tablecloth used only on Easter Sunday, and has seen its share of holidays over the years. I bought it new when I was newly wed and thought to myself “this should last a few years….” Ground in Easter bread crumbs, tomato sauce and red wine with dinner have graced it, as well as coffee rings and chocolate bunnies. It has survived food fights (not the good kind) and little fingers smashing hidden peas under plates. Yet it amazes me every time I take it from the linen closet, there are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time. There are few pieces of torn fabric only I can see, which would have no consequence to anyone else if they did notice it. It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world. To my eyes, it was as clean as the cloth on the altar at church we attended those mornings when things were still black and white, Priests were sinless and families were intact. It was reborn every year.
We never seem to celebrate a holiday on its actual date in my family, and Easter this year was no different. The fact it came early made it especially tenuous for making travel plans, with snow still on the ground and icy window panes framing vibrant Easter flowers on the table. Easter in March is like eating ice cream in a blizzard; it just seems to blend in.
Our dinner was on Saturday this year as traveling and work schedules made it so. We all met at my house on the lake, my children, their children and me. Our thoughts were with my beloved, who was working out of town. He was missed.
A best friend of my sons’ also came out, always referred to as the fourth son, as well as a special friend of my daughter; driving up from Manhattan to “meet the mother” it was a time of excitement and curiosity and catching up. Snuggling up with the grand kids, and documenting the first new steps of the baby, it was a cozy if somewhat snug afternoon of cooking and drinking and laughing in the kitchen.
I’ve often wondered if they would ever really forgive me for leaving their father, seemingly out of the blue to them, but a necessity for my survival. It was a confusing time of anger, fear and resentment, with acceptance only coming in short bursts of reality; this is how it is now and how it is going to be.
The next few years I tried to make the holidays as familiar as I could, with the same traditions and routines which tied them to their old life, while accommodating someone else who stood beside me. Things began to seem like they were in ‘the old days’, but not quite.
Calling everyone to dinner, it was time to gather in the big room, with different furniture and different seating arrangements than that of their childhood. The only thing familiar was the pink and white table cloth on the dining room table.
“This is our Easter Tablecloth” my daughter said to the one who makes her eyes shine and her smile as wide as her face will allow. “We’ve had it forever and it still looks like new. Its as if it is reborn every year.”
Yes, I thought to my self. There are no tell tale remnants of such stains, and even the largest of marks have faded away over time.
Every Easter Sunday, we are forgiven; we are reborn.
It was the Easter Tablecloth, and every thing was right with the world.
Even on a Saturday in March.
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