In a steady rain, my daughter sets the table for dinner. For months, we’ve eaten on our deck. I suggest, as I’m sautéing onions, that she set the dining room table.
Giggling, she lays plates on the glass table outside, sets out forks, and then digs in the drawer for napkins.
Really? I say, napkins? They’ll get wet.
I don’t mind eating outside by myself, she answers, still giggling.
This has been a long day, a long however many weeks that have widened into months of coronavirus, that will likely be a long year or years. We’d planned to be in Maine these days, soaking up sunlight and the sand, but quarantining upon return isn’t feasible. She knows this; she doesn’t argue.
Still laughing, she takes a jar of pickles and sets it on the table. From inside, I see raindrops bounce off its unopened top. When she comes back, I say, Don’t forget cups. I’m eating outside with you, too.
All who have achieved excellence in art possess one thing in common; that is, a mind to be one with nature, throughout the seasons.
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