The big green plastic table
My grandmother‘s yard was broken into two parts. The back end was beautiful. A small field of fern green grass, sprinkled with memories of her homeland. The tucked away in the rear right quarter stood short but wide reaching fig tree, whose fruit seemed to grow so bulbous and heavy that the tree could never grow tall against their weight. Closer to the house, making a more central statement, she had planted a quintessential greek essence, seen as a staple necessity, a green and gold lemon tree and to its left sat a humble veggi patch, built with the mentality of a poor villager. Old fabrics cut into thin strips tying mix matched bit of old wood to from a makeshift fence, chicken wire piled beside freshly churned soil.
Then between two dividing flowerbeds is a single and lonely step down. There the grass is replaced with a small red brick patio, the ceramic tiles lack uniformity, intact rectangles beside ones showing evidence of past drops and clumsy accidents. The patio was less weathered, saved by shelter, covered by a pergola that had seen better days.
And sitting in the centre of the red brick patio, was a big green plastic table protected by a tablecloth of clear plastic and with Emerald green plastic chairs tucked patiently under waiting for their next turn to provide reprieve to tired feet.
But today, there was no serenity. The green plastic table did not host the usual happy chitter chatter of family lunches. The emerald green chairs no longer provided feet with comfort.
I don’t remember the words, they are almost the least important aspect to me. I remember the air, almost trapped between the red brick and the open roofed pagoda above. The air, thick with tension, icy with angst. I can hear the soles of house slipper slapping against the ground as he chased her around the table. To him, maybe it was a justified squeeze play, and to her perhaps he was having a mere moment of roguery, no doubt explosive, without posing any real danger. I even though I was too young to hear the words and know their meaning, I was not too young to heed their tone.
I could hear the malice, the evil in his demands. I could hear her desperate, confused cries for help. Even as a small child, while I watch on from the kitchen window, even I could see the danger.
My grandmothers yard had two sections, one half is made of calm green pasture and the other is built of red brick floor, with a big green plastic table and emerald green plastic chairs, but now one has a crack in its arm rest and a crack in its leg.
I have so many memories of that table, many of times I hope I will always remember and one I will always try my hardest to forget.