How these ordinary home furniture pieces, became a part of the shared histories of a family, how memories attached themselves, translated…
From Before at Every Meal, He & It, Closest to the Corner to Mom, Was, the, Constant, Arrangement…………
Every first and fifteenth of the lunar calendar month, after the ancestors ate the meals that were prepared, then came our, the offspring's turns who are still, living to gather around, eating the blessed foods. While the table is at the core of the, kitchen, the members of the families, found their own, specific spot, situated in our own, chairs.
The edges of the table is only a step away from the stove, mom would go to and from, making the meals for us, and the kitchen and dining room was were she'd, spent most of her time in life. My father always sat on the seat with the back turned to the stove, while I, opposite him.
I'd once observed, as my father with his left hand, mildly trembling, holding the bowl, he would, unconsciously, leaned against the beam on the left with his elbows. And, I'd asked him why there was this beam dead center in our, dining room a couple of times? He'd explained, that back then, when it was grandpa who was the head of the house, while he was still working for his own father, the house was a rice mill. And above the kitchen, there were, the tons of the items stored, and needed the extra support, so the mill won't, collapse.
illustration from UDN.com
The stories usually, ended right here, later, the rice grinding mill was out of operation, and the harvested rice went to another larger enterprise, our own small business that's local, found the place inside the small alleys of the districts of town, became a memory of the agricultural, era.
After the mill was put up, grandpa got rid of the machinery one by one, and restarted in finding a brand new way of life with his families here. My grandfather used to sit right at the spot, with the back turned against the stoves too, that place, closest to the woman who's closest to the stoves, where the beams were set. With my father, sitting opposite like I am doing, from grandpa.
While mom still worked to and from. She'd, placed some foods into a separate dish in smaller containers, then, made the rice into a tower. I'd known the purpose, I'd taken the trays, and, walked across the tables, with the vegetarian items, passed that chair which my father and grandfather had sat in for many decades, walked upstairs, and, served it to my father, who'd, stayed by the side of the ancestors.
I'd returned downstairs, back to the tables, and, looked at that iron chair that's now, vacant. The scars from the erosions, that got welded to work, I'd thought of replacing the chair from before. And, the patching, breaking down frame, repeatedly, I can't believe, that the chair was able to, hold my father's, weight.
In his dying days, my father became, deteriorated away in his mind and body, but, no matter the times, day and night of the day to days, whenever we have the chances, we'd all, shared our meals together as a family. While my mother, took care of that old chair with so much care, like she'd taken good care of my father too. The meals from times before, he and it, in that corner that's, closest to my mother, was, the constant, arrangement.
Suppers ready now, I'd told mom to sit down to eat, and inquired about that chair.
"Just leave it as a memento." And we all knew, that my father will, always be, around.
So, this is, the memories, of home, of love, of that giving and offering to the families, taking care of your loved ones, and it didn't matter if someone in the family is no longer living, there's still a place for the person at the tables, out of, respect.
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