The Tablecloth

The Tablecloth

The old woman stood at her dining table lost in her own thoughts. She had been busy this morning doing all of her usual household chores. The laundry was whirling away in the washing machine, the sweeping had been done, the dishes had been washed and put away. Meat had been set out to thaw for supper. She was changing the tablecloth on her dining table when it happened. She became lost in her own memories.

She had went to the linen closet and took out an old white tablecloth to use on the table. There was no need for anything fancy as she was expecting no guest, she had no special meal planned. She was simply one who thought a table needed a tablecloth, and placemats too, if she had any that would match. She always had some type of flower arrangement in the center, usually something she had made herself, along with the little Mason jar salt and pepper shakers.

She stripped off the first cloth and put it in the washroom to be washed. She then opened the old white one up and began to straighten it out on the table. She saw a couple of faded yellow stains and suddenly it dawned on her which table cloth this was. It was a tablecloth from many years ago that she had hung onto for no apparent reason. After all, it was old, a little frayed on the edges, and had those ugly yellow stains.

Many years ago when her children were small, she had managed to acquire an antique dining room set, complete with the china cabinet, the high-boy buffet, and the table and chairs. It was the nicest thing she owned at the time. She had been very protective of it. She remembered not allowing anyone to sit there at meal times. She, along with the other members of the family, ate in the kitchen at the old table she had. She remembers telling the children that the chairs were too delicate for everyday use. She remembered telling them that it would be used for special occasions only.

The first Thanksgiving after acquiring the dining room set, she had managed to save enough money to buy a beautiful new white tablecloth for the table. She set the table, using all of her best dishes, platters and bowls. Some of the things she had were mismatched and old, but to her, the fancy table with its new snow-white tablecloth was beautiful She was so pleased.

When the meal was ready and she had placed everything in its place, she called the family to dinner. They even had company over to share their Thanksgiving meal. She was so proud that everything looked so nice. She had already instructed the children to be very careful and not spill anything on the new tablecloth, and to sit very still so as not to break the chairs. She was very protective, remember?

As the meal progressed, naturally things were spilled, dropped, or dribbled on her pretty new tablecloth. She couldn’t say anything because company was there and she really wanted them to enjoy their meal. She cried inside as gravy dribbled, cranberry sauce left their pink marks, and one of the children spilled their tea. All she could do was cringe. She knew that after their company left, she was really going to let the children have it. She had warned them, hadn’t she? She had told them to be careful, hadn’t she? Didn’t they realize how hard it had been to save enough money to buy the new table cloth? Why couldn’t they respect her things? She didn’t ask for much.

When dinner was over, she began clearing the table, putting the food away and washing the dishes. The children had went outside to play. The more little stains she saw on her tablecloth, the more angry she became.

When the children were called in to take their baths and get ready for bed, she brought them all into the living room and sat them down. She told them that she wanted to talk to them about respect, and about taking care of things. She told them how difficult it had been for her to save the money for the tablecloth. She scolded them for their sloppiness. She scolded them for not caring about her or her things. She scolded them for their lack of manners. She scolded and scolded. She never raised her voice, but the words she used had cut the children deeply. They were all in tears and begging her forgiveness for their indiscretions and mishaps. They apologized again and again before going off to bed.

That night, she used every kind of stain remover she had to try and restore the tablecloth to its original bright whiteness. The stains remained. She washed and she washed, she scrubbed and she scrubbed. The next day she dried it on the clothesline in the hopes the bright sunshine would at least help to fade the stains. It didn’t. She finally folded the tablecloth up and put it away, way back in the back of the linen closet on the bottom of the stack.

Over the next few years, she often thought about how she had scolded the children that day. She felt very guilty about having made them feel so bad. She felt guilty for saying the things she knew must have hurt them. She felt guilty for allowing her own pride to get in the way and for not having the courage to admit her wrong to the children. She felt sad in the fact that her children didn’t know that she had forgiven them long ago.

The children grew up and moved away into their own lives. When they would come for a visit, they never sat at the dining table. They always went to the kitchen where the old table was. They never sat in the delicate dining table chairs. Even when holiday meals were served, they told her they were just more comfortable there, there at the old table with the old benches that had been repaired too many times to count.. They just didn’t like the fancy dining room table.

Now, all these years later, the old woman stands alone staring into her past. She stares at all the little stains on her old tablecloth. She sees the little hands of her children when they made the stains. She sees the hurt in the eyes of her children when she scolded them for making such a mess of her pretty new tablecloth. She sees the mistake she made so many years ago. She knows she should have made things right years ago and told the children that she had been wrong, so very wrong. She sees her regrets, and she sees how much she would give to have the time to do over again. She wishes she could have the chance to tell each child that they were forgiven, that they were more precious than any piece of cloth, that she had been wrong. But, as the reality of her mistakes come back to her, she slips away.

One of the children came by to check on her and found her crying at the dining table, holding onto the old tablecloth, crying and repeating “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Her mind has slipped into the past where she now spends her time going over and over the stains of an old tablecloth.