The room
was dark and there were no plates, glasses or utensils on the
table where they usually ate, just outside the kitchen and facing
the family room with its big-screen television. Only the day's
mail rested on the table, where he had left it several hours
earlier.
"Greta?" he called, turning toward the kitchen. In the minimal
illumination of the dimmed track lights he saw pots and pans
resting with their lids ajar, a few gooey spoons. Having had a
moment to adjust to the darkness, he caught the flickering glow
coming from the dining room, which was accessed either by the
foyer or through the doorway in the kitchen.
"In here," came his wife's voice softly.
He rounded the turn and was a little surprised to see Greta
seated at the formal dining table, facing him. The room was dark
except for the gentle radiance from two candles. Silverware
shimmered and crystal glasses sparkled in the soft light. Poached
vegetables and steaming new red potatoes in delicate china bowls
sat beside a covered serving dish. Between the candles, in a
large vase in the center of the table, were pussy willow
branches, fuzzy and in full bloom. When he had walked in the door
with them yesterday, she had thought for a moment that he had
remembered. But then he explained that someone from the office
had brought in bunches for everyone.
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