I was back home after an absence of ten months spent with daughter in Michigan. Nola needed me to look after M2 who was at that time one, and a half years old, and M3 who was a new born baby. She didn’t want them in daycare, and I was the only answer to her predicament. 

The day after arrival back home, I gathered up gloves and furniture polish to clean the tv lounge in our home. Beginning with the centre table, I removed the bric a brac lying on top of it, and on it’s lower shelf, and put them aside. While dusting it, I noticed the new grooves, and lines added on it’s surface.

Son’s wife wandered at that moment into the lounge, and saw me at work. She sheepishly explained that the new marks on the table were the handiwork of grandsons H, and Sn. I smiled at her, and said it didn’t matter. I could see that she was amazed at my reply. She expected annoyance from me which didn’t happen.

I knew at that moment that years later those lines would remind me of my grandsons’childhood, and instead of damage they were age lines which enhanced the table.



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