I am sitting staring down at my old wooden kitchen table that had been in my house since the first few years of my marriage and having children. The marks from my kids' roughhousing have left small scars in the wood. My daughters tried coloring the legs the table once but had only really managed to stain the wood with their markers. When my sons grew big enough to realize the pleasure of playing with knives, they began to dig chunks out of the table. And even on the rarest of occasions, my sweet, gentle husband would stab his knife directly into the wood to scare the kids into being quiet for half a moment so he could gather his thoughts. Whatever the cause, the scars remain as a reminder of a well-used, well-loved wooden table. I got it second hand, to begin with, and it was a pretty standard wooden table. Although when the family expanded, the table could extend as well. There were carvings along the edges but nothing too extravagant, and with a table cloth, I rarely notice them. But at this moment, I pay close attention to the vine-like carving along the edges of the table. I don't think I have, in my 40 years in this house, ever spent so much time analyzing it. I am running my fingers along the dents in the table, seeing the age of the wood. A lump forms in my throat, and like so many times before, I refuse to cry over silly things like an old table that should have been thrown away years ago.
"Mom!" I hear my oldest son, James, come through the front door, and I wipe away the runaway tear that had managed to escape.
"In the kitchen, honey!" I bellow in response, clearing the table of the letters and bills that sit scattered everywhere.
"I brought some groceries, Jan insisted on buying you food. So, I hope you and dad are starved." He chuckles as he set the bags down on the kitchen island. "Where's dad?" He asks, removing the groceries and putting them away.
"Tennis with his friends, like he does every weekend," I reply somewhat absentmindedly.
"That old man is going to die on that tennis field." James shakes his head.
"At least he would die happy," I respond as I begin to sort the mail. After a few moments of silence, James takes a seat beside me.
"What's going on, mom?" He says with worry in his eyes. James was always the intuitive one, even when he was small. Unlike his two younger brothers who never seemed to notice anything until it was staring them in the face, James was the first to take your hand, look you in the eyes, and want to know if he could help.I smile at my beautiful boy, tall, handsome, strong, just like his dad. His soft green eyes are like him too, and I see a lot of my mother in him as well.
"I have to go back to Germany," I reply with a small smile trying not to worry him too much.
"Germany? Why?" James asked, taken aback by the news.
"There are some things I need to put to rest there," I reply, patting his hand that squeezes mine gently in response.
"Why now?" James asks, searching for answers I'm not sure he wants.
I try to keep my words calm, and even so, he doesn't see the underlying terror behind my words. "I have to go now because there's a deadline for the demolition of someplace very special to me that I would like to be present for."
"Mom, you can't just take off to Germany, is dad going?"
I shake my head, "He would go if I asked, but there are too many bad memories for him there. I don't want to put him through that."
"So, you're telling me that you are just getting on a plane and traveling to Germany alone?" James says with concern.
"It will only be a few days, James, I'm not moving back there," I say, feeling like a stubborn teenager being scolded by her parent.
James considered my words for a moment, looking troubled by the idea, "How about if I come with you?" He asks with a smile.
James was always the one with a solution to any problem, even when there wasn't a problem that needed to be fixed. "I'm not sure this trip will be something you'll want to be there for," I say hesitantly.
"Please, let me come. I have always wanted to go to Germany, see where you and dad come from." He says with excitement.
"What about work?" I ask.
"I have some days off," He replies quickly, not letting my excuses triumph.
"What about Jan? I'm sure she won't like you taking off without her." I answer sternly.
"Mom." James says, eyeing me carefully, "Please let me come with you."
Fear begins to creep in slowly, rising and causing my insides to twist. I would be showing my son a side of me that I have spent my life attempting to hide. That place would be telling a story that I never wanted to say out loud to anyone. Tears begin to well into my eyes, and embarrassment makes my cheeks flush red. "Won't your brothers and sisters be jealous?"
"The only one who might be hurt is John, but with the new baby and work. The last thing he could manage is a three-day trip to Germany. Besides, like you said, it's not a vacation." James says.
At last, I nod in agreement, "Okay, you can come." And that was that.