The cloth runs over the wood with a gloss and shines like moisturized skin. It snags on catches in the table leg; nicks in a craftsman’s fine finish belie the honest effort. The tabletop, a medley of peach pink granite, sits centered in half circle. Back against the wall, this display of woodwork and artistry stands in the corner. To polish is to move in deliberate, sincere strokes to apply the oil. In my youth, to polish meant to suffer, reek of lemons and rub again until mother’s satisfaction. I looked over to my mother now, never idle, but gliding with the broom, as if about a ballroom. Look at all the dirt in a house. Her thoughts feel pressed at times -work, work, work - but she sounds different. The same protective tone I take when others handle my camera, leaf through my magazines or when my brother plops on the company beanbag. I admire the three carved legs again, remark about the imagination of its creator, the pride in their work. It wobbles, just as sturdy as the boy wiping, off-balance, swayed by influence and force. A breath escapes - mmm - I make an effort to the wine cabinet across the living room. Seldom do we sit here anyway, but my debate lacks an audience, as I do not mention it. One by one, I remove knick-knacks atop this item, to dust it. This piece lacks character, like a composite sketch with no key features. The shelves slide in and out, probably to puzzle the customers at IKEA. For a family who abstains from alcohol, we have a lot, I think. I observe faith but I fail to practice. This explains the type of student I am; the labor teaches with every wipe. The smell of the lemon polish and the cotton-mesh cloth from the clinic, courtesy of mother’s pluck, take me back. Years ago, I rushed this job, polishing to return to whatever idolatry at the time. I discount that, in those days, I had few games, but played some of personal invention. With books of demigods and unfortunate events to devour, I did not care for MMORPG’s or FPS. My laziness then cost me dearly, I think. I rub inspired: oil into wood, drip oil into cloth, repeat. The full bottles of wine sit lonely to me, til I recall college and the drinking without thirst that occupied our time. I shake the past off, and the bottle drips more drops of citrus gold. The inspection of the beverages continues as I pull out a bottle of Haitian rum. Barbancourt, it reads. Rhum Barbancourt, and more Creole I connect phonetically from grandma’s lessons. I think of the country, its productivity. The first nation to free itself and a proud exporter of spirits, a dissonance emerged between the two ideas. Mom always said the country offered more before, but the people... The people wasted their resources, they hurt themselves instead when they demonstrated. They closed schools, destroyed hospitals. I pushed through to finish the job. Barbancourt made a fine product of Haiti. My mother another, the table and I - I wanted to be, I thought.
