My aunt Bren died in 2014. We spent a great deal of time together—indeed, she was like a second mother to me. We shopped. We dined out. We laughed and sang along to the radio. So when she asked me to go with her to pick out a kitchen table, I was glad to go.
We looked at many that day, that much I remember. But when she found this farmhouse table with bench seats, she fell in love with it.
I had many meals there. We shared coffee. We traded secrets. The light from the bay windows would diffuse everything in a warm glow, and my aunt would look even more beautiful, even more radiant than usual.
She is gone now, but so much of her still lingers there.
The table remains, a little worse for wear and missing the end chairs. But when I run my hand over its scarred surface, I can almost hear the ghosts of all those secret conversations murmuring in my ear, and I feel closer to her than ever before.