The Small Table
One short letter every Thursday, so you have a day to shop, bake and put the phone away.
Haifa,
Half past four, and already dusk
Dear reader,
On Tuesday I looked up from the sink and the kitchen window had already gone the colour of weak tea. It was not yet five. The clocks here went back a week ago Sunday, and Friday has suddenly moved up the afternoon, like a guest who arrives early and is perfectly nice about it.
So this week I rearranged the afternoon rather than the evening. The dough goes in at noon, the table is wiped by two, and the one pot that must simmer goes on while I am still in my work clothes. By four the flat smells right and nothing is left but the candles. It is less a plan than a habit of doing the last thing first.
My notebook sits by the window with a braided candle on top of it. Every Friday I write one line before I light anything: what I carried in on Monday that I can put down now. Last week it was a phone call I had been dreading. This week it was shorter. It was only a form, and I laughed at myself.
When Friday shrinks, I add nothing. I set the small table, put one loaf under its cloth, place two candles, and leave my phone in the drawer with the spare keys. For years only one chair was ever pulled out. Write back and tell me what time the dark reaches your window. I am collecting them.
Warmly,
Miriam
P.S. If you have never set a Friday night before, my four-week course, Your First Friday Night, goes through it one small step at a time.
