This is the cement table, my wife's father, Jean Pouget, built with his own two hands, 40 years ago in the French countryside -- a place for him to sit and sip aperitifs after work. Sometimes he sipped alone, sometimes with his wife, Henriette, now my 90-year old mother-in-law. The base and top were made from a mold and so were the sections of the small patio on which it rests, now all at odd angles to each other, like neighbors who no longer speak. The mosaic tiles, on top, are not exactly where he placed them, the grout having long ago come undone, so many storms having come and gone. Henriette, dear sweet Henriette, is no longer able to make her way down from the front porch to the table. She's not walking as well as she used to and she doesn't want to fall. So the tiles just sit there, sharp pieces of a puzzle no one puts together. Time has moved on... and so has Jean -- a man I have never met, but feel him, today, sitting next to me, like a rock, the last few rays of light finding their way through the tree tops where the two of abide.

MitchDitkoff.com

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