5 April 2020, A favourite piece of furniture

Sticks

The pieces sat on the log pile, small fragile sticks of bleached hardwood, freshly cut rhubarb-curled akimbo.

The realisation then, flooded over me like the loss of an old friend, too late. I’ll tell you about it.

Long before the children came along Fiona and me took a call from her Grandma down South who was downsizing, and did we want any furniture, being newly-weds. Because if we did, get busy hire a van or something and come get, so we did.

Among the treasures were a tiny little set of folding chairs and table straight out of a Beatrix Potter tale, only for children. Quaint and functional, not toys, they became part of our lives.

The children came along and sat in them, played in them, Fiona made little upholstered cushions, and they lived alongside the family, folding away out of sight at times.

Old family photos reminisce, there they were, where are they now. The faded little chairs made the journey to New Zealand and into the background of our new lives, part of the furniture. Way too small for grown children they cuddled dolls and teddies, held up plants.

And here I am, the hot chainsaw beside me realising I just made firewood out of the little table, stout little legs frayed by decay, the delicate slats from the top rotted away from holding plants on the deck for so many years.

I’m so sorry little table, I will miss you. Were you really beyond repair?