“When the Tables Touched”

A Dream I Had, As One Who Sees

I came to my mother’s house,
not as a child,
but as something returned.
The world had grown cold and brittle.
The old rooms hummed like memory,
and one sister was already there—
silent, seated,
her table pressed beside our mother’s.

I carried mine in too.
Wood against wood,
like bones aligning.

She showed me where to place it—
a corner of the kitchen,
where the rug was torn,
wounded with wear,
a place no one thought to mend.
And still, she made space for me there.

Then came the sound of tires on gravel,
the rumble of change or mistake.
It was my husband,
in my mother’s truck—
arms full of shine,
trinkets clattering like cheap apologies.
He brought gifts she did not ask for,
did not want.

A wooden music box,
hollow and sweet,
a melody we couldn’t afford.
The price of it—
the power bill unpaid,
the borrowed warmth undone.

And her face—
I saw the storm behind her eyes.
No words needed.
Just the tremor of betrayal
wrapped in the silence of dignity.

But then—
bags. Plastic, stretched and full,
and full again.
He unloaded them by the dozens—
groceries, food, answers in a time of questions.
He spread them across her table,
his arms aching with provision.

“Put it away,” she said.
“Hide it.”
As though food were a secret
we’d be punished for keeping.

I filled the fridge,
stacked the cabinets,
tucked cans into corners.
And still there was more.

Then she turned to the wall—
reached behind the paneling,
and peeled it back like skin.

Hidden there—folded bills,
layered like pressed leaves,
a history of saving,
of planning for what might come.

She pulled out the money,
touched it like it no longer mattered,
and replaced it with food.

“This,” she whispered, “is worth more now.”

And I understood.

Another sister came in,
the wind in her hair and a wound in her voice.
“There’s nothing left,” she said.
“No food. Nowhere.”
Her eyes were full of endings.

He said, “I’ll return.”

And he did.

The truck came again, heavy with grace.
We opened the walls and buried the bounty,
as if preserving something holy.
My sister brought her table in too,
and once more,
the tables touched.

Then came the children,
not running,
but walking as if they already knew.
My nephew had brought his protections—
tools, weapons, truths.
He passed them out like communion,
and taught the others how to use them.

We stood together,
daughters and sons,
around the tables that held us.

The house had become
something else.

Not just a shelter.
A covenant.

This was a dream I had.

And maybe—just maybe—
a vision of what must be remembered.
Or prepared.
Or carried forward
in the walls of us.

-Written by Marguerite Grace
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