December 15th is a Saturday this year.
The harvest table stands waiting for me face down on the tarp. It' a quiet winter day.
It would've been my 33rd anniversary had my husband lived.
TJ and I drag the tarp and table into the light in the center of the room, we gather brushes, paint, and rags. Then together we tape newspaper around the finished tabletop.
Kneeling low and focusing on small tasks feels just right today.
When I mix up the first batch of milk paint, I expect it to smell pretty acrid, having lye. But instead, the smell is earthy and organic. Dash is fascinated. Having researched the how-to aspects of this project, I recall someone saying the paint smelled like a country barn... like cut grass and healthy animals. I understand. It smells alive.
We each take a leg diagonally opposite - TJ and I, that is - and begin to brush on the paint. It is thin, but easy to work with, and even though we did no prep to the raw wood, it rolls on smoothly. TJ and I work in parallel for a while, until he heads to the kitchen to make dinner.
I am alone.
I like pushing the brush along an area of wood and watching the raw wood disappear under my hand. I hope the terribly bright green dries darker. There's no battle with drips, no streakiness. So there's no hassle. It just covers more, and then more wood. Stroking on the bit-too-bright color satisfies.
Coat one dries quickly and I return to my starting point. Yet this time when I return, as then, it is different. The color looks yet richer. I appreciate the small steps I take to move the job forward, even as I remember other years.
The next day, Sunday, I apply the wax stain to the legs. My brightly painted legs are transformed into antiqued, dark green appendages that speak of an earlier time. Together the table, and I, are fresh today but with remembrances of a past.
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