By Talia Kliot
Even the plates have character in the country. I imagine that someone meticulously painted on the blue and yellow flowers, each petal a careful stroke. The pancakes are piled up and steam seeps out of their fluffy pores, the smell of browned edges wafting through the fresh, country air. If I make you pancakes, you know I love you.
The napkins don’t fly away in the light breeze and neither does the copper bird that holds them down. The glass table ripples like the surface of a lake when it is just windy enough to sail, but we don’t think about the lake on our day off. The cutlery is not placed straight but it has a charming, nonchalant allure. “Have you ever seen such a perfect table?” Half the fun is setting up.
I sit back in the flimsy plastic chair, shielded from the noon sun by the gazebo. Raspy voices of old friends meld with the silky silence of no responsibilities. The boys come up the wooden stairs that are older than them, but far more sturdy. They came over last night too, but nothing happened; thank goodness. We will stay there for hours, in old camp t-shirts and pyjama shorts, eating until the plates are as empty as when we began.
These are the moments I remember when I float too close to the arched ceiling in my Dawson library daydream.