We thought it was a fine idea, to buy reclaimed Indonesian hardwood. Brilliant, to buy comfortable, woven banana leaf chairs. Back before the children came. Back when the dining table, polished and perfect, was where we ate when the company came. It is easy to look good when you haven’t really been tested yet.

Now the cracks of the old tree plank are packed up with yogurt. The ridges on the chairs filled up with crumbs. Still we put our feet under this table. We invite people to it. Yesterday I watched a young man scratch at the yogurt with his thumb, I made excuses. I make a lot of excuses. My husband, he made me promise that we would never hide our mess, that we would invite you into it. He says it is the pretenders who let sin fester till it explodes. Not those who lay it on the table. We just hound after Grace like the dogs for the crumbs. 

It is 5 am the cup is poured and I am already at the table. It is not by choice mind you. That girl child rose a second time to remind me that my life is not my own. Rose again to remind me of that day that passed, looking like failure and yogurt in cracks. It was one of those, where I failed near all of you. Felt dreadfully sick of my very own skin, my mess the most abhorrent of all.

I make my way here and start again. Make my way here where truth is resurrected, something is sticking to my feet. It reminds me of grace.

Linking with Amber….seeking my written voice…and Emily...celebrating imperfect prose.