Crying at the Empty Table
Sorrow’s emptiness can be filled in unlikely places
Alone
I sit stiff and scared at the empty dining room table when the digital magistrate pronounces, “You are finished, done, divorced.”
I am glued to the table with its invisible scrapbook of thousands of meals, full of laughing, arguing, long lazy dinners with friends, surprise birthday parties, and the absolute pleasure of a million stories.
His mother gave me that table. Oak, round, clawed feet with nails that I always threatened to paint bright red. Every time I said it, my mother-in-law smiled wanly. I wondered if she worried that this would be another crazy thing I’d do, like keeping my name, a betrayal she never got over.
Divorced
The Zoom screen goes dead, with not even a “Goodbye, Good Luck.” The last thing the magistrate says is, “You’ll get the papers in three weeks.”
My ex-husband sits at a table 300 miles away. At this, one of the most significant moments of our lives, we are the most distant.
We are remote, in every way. Unlike our wedding, which was bursting with people and joy, there is not even a witness. We are alone, at separate, empty tables.
I stretch my arms across the table and lay my head on the keyboard. Sorrow shakes the breath out of me. I don’t cry. I moan.
I am stuck in the agony of “NOW.” No past, no future, just the awful endless “Now,” that paralyzes me in pain, while I evaporate in slow torture of yet another trip to hell.
I can barely see, so I walk to the kitchen to grab a paper towel. I pass my giant whiteboard, which is supposed to organize me but never does.
“Oh, Shit! I can’t believe this!” It looks like several months ago, I volunteered at a community center for Thanksgiving preparations. All it said was, November 16 — “Produce.”
“I can’t do this,” I panicked. “I just can’t.” I called the coordinator and told her that I use a walker and maybe I’d get in the way. She didn’t hesitate, “Oh, no, we’ll find you a chair. No problem.”
Goddamnit! My nose was dripping. My eyes were swollen. My skin was grey, and my mind was jammed.
Fault
I blame my mother. She died two months ago. She echoes in my silence.
It is mostly comforting. But not this.
When a boy broke up with me and I was tied up in the torment of adolescent rejection, this enormously practical woman would say, “Take the weekend. Be miserable. Cry your eyes out. But then, on Monday, pull yourself together and do something for someone else.”
That was the difference between us. I could grieve a year for a kid I loved for only a week, and she could set a timer on her misery. Action was always the cure for sorrow.
Understanding
I got the message. I could feel like shit and still reach out. But she always lost me when she promised that it would make me feel so much better. It made me feel, but I wouldn’t go so far as better.
It doesn’t matter. There are feelings and there are actions, and they don’t need to match.
I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m not exactly high on life. I’m not quite my mother’s daughter.
Volunteer
I tentatively roll my red walker into a large sunny, but cold room. The tables groan with squash, carrots, potatoes, sweet potatoes, onions, and apples. I am hesitant and shy in these situations. I find it easy to speak in front of 1000 people, but the 1:1 is much harder.
The coordinator gives me a quick hug and seats me at a long table for four. It is empty, at the back of the room. I feel like I'm going to have a panic attack. I am now alone again, and this time in a strange place. I hear my mother’s voice. “Just keep going. Weigh 4.5 lbs. of apples, bag and tie them, and then just do the whole damn thing over again. Until it’s done.”
“Is this seat taken?” “No, no take it,” I tell a young guy named Ivan, who is covered in more tattoos than I have ever seen. I wonder what his mother thinks. I hear my voice actually explaining to him what to do. I wasn’t sure I would be able to open my mouth without crying.
Then Gloria, a gorgeous woman with the biggest afro I’ve seen in a long time, grabs a seat next to me. Her hair defies gravity. I am entranced. She was born friendly and just starts peppering us with questions. A young woman, Samantha, joins our table. We talk about where we’re from. Samantha asks where my husband is from.
I said, “I got divorced today.” There is a collective gasp.
Gloria puts her arms around me and says, “We’ve got to exchange phone numbers.”
I could tell Ivan was moved. He said, “My son is 16 months old. Do you have children?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “She’s 40 and she lives in Sweden.”
I am talking. I have a life. I’m on a roll.
I tell them the incredibly romantic story of their meeting, which everyone loves. We talk about places we’ve visited. It is a traveling group. The mountains of apples move as we each bag hundreds and hundreds of them.
My arthritis reminds me that my hands are resenting my efforts. But it is a different pain. Regular pain.
When our time is up, we learn that a few of us will be back in two days. And for such a short time, there is pure pleasure at our amazing accomplishment.
Affirmation
I made it. I did my job. I helped people. People helped me.
When I returned home, I sat down at my table, without even removing my coat. I rubbed the oiled wood. I admired the grain. I knew how much I loved it.
“This table is not empty,” I thought.
I’m here!
And there will be more tables in my life that are free with their abundance and welcome.
Maybe my mother was right. Maybe it’s possible to be in pieces but to let brokenness build a bridge to people who also know suffering.
And I don’t have to feel what I don’t or be who I’m not. I can feel as sorry for myself as I damn well please.
But I can also take armfuls of apples and let them tumble on tables. I can smooth their cool, red, roundness against my skin. I can inhale their fresh, sweet scent.
I can wonder where they’ve been and imagine all the different places they are headed. How will they be transformed? Ciders, Pies, Crisps, Crumbles? Their future will be determined by custom and experimentation.
I am not stuck in the awful “Now.” Past and future return to me.
And tonight, I will make them mine.
If only for a little while.
