Table Runner by Tami Miller

Part I

She couldn’t remember if she had told her lover the story. 

The boxes holding the photographs were worn. Old library card holders she had found placed in a hallway for the taking. When had they come into her life? She had toted them from apartment to apartment, city to city, and now to her home. Only by visualizing their placements in various interiors was she able to locate their origin.

She had had them since Seattle. Twenty years. 

She did not know if her current lover cared for stories like the ones found in the photographs or not. Her previous lover had not. The one before adored them.

Had she shared the story in mind now?

There is no use to wonder like this. What if there were another lover, and she would have to recall such things all over again? Daily she spoke with many people. They littered her life. She talked about children, homes, hygiene, shows, shopping and holiday travels. She enjoyed it, but tracking it was not possible.

Part II

It was called a ‘wonder project’. Four weeks to complete a single project on a two-harness loom. The studio was located next to the interstate. Mid-way into the urban traffic. Two hours from home. No problem.

She condensed four weeks into four days to complete the project. A table runner. 

Driving each day to the studio, she reflected on her stories. She color coded them. She assigned stitches to them. Childhood. Parents. Grandparents. Places. Friends. Lovers. Music. Things she learned. Jobs she held. Hurts and injustices. Healing and love. 

It all ran together. It all intersected.

Everything came together neatly in the loom. It cost $240 plus gas and lunches out, as well as additional conversations with the instructor who liked to watch Love Boat and had a penchant for men who enjoyed historical re-enactment. 

Part III

The table runner was made the same year she learned to hold opposing emotions in the same hand. It was made the year she mastered making soup. The year she put her dog down. The year her mother forgot her name and her nephew learned it.  

With the table runner in place, she no longer worried which stories she shared, nor what her lover’s opinion of them was. Neither did she worry about future threads. She included them. Everything was there. All one  had to do was sit at her table and they knew them all. 

by Dorothy Graden