the liberation of the coffee table
Last night we made peace with the past, maintained civility while agreeing to continue on our separate paths and to not re-engage. Our lack of understanding of each other as individuals was no longer an anvil around our necks disguised as some teeny bopper proclamation of friendship. Despite our disparate world views, we were able to shake hands before we both headed off on the high road. This was a dream. You are much too invested in the past to allow such an exchange.
Meanwhile, the coffee table with broken edges and bearing your handwriting is still a focal point for my room. The lasting message I have from you is blue-inked irritation, thick with passive aggressiveness. It goes unseen since the piece was replaced, but I know its there. Defaming the coffee table in the name of domestic warfare, it stands as more than a four-cornered object in a room. The possession of the coffee table was not the victory, the relocation of it along with myself to someplace else was the victory. My line, my rebellion, my liberation is that plain, utilitarian piece of wood. It did not come made that way; it was an evolution of living.
Perhaps you may think the coffee table ruined us. Indeed it did. As anything I ever owned or placed value in did.