Rogue’s Gallery

His kitchen table was made of hand-hewn planks.  It was solid and sturdy and filled the entire small room.  I often wondered why he didn’t get a smaller one, as he often had to shift it to get to other things.  It was covered by a clear plastic table protector, like the kind you can get at the dollar store.  Underneath were hundreds of pictures of children, with and without their parents, arranged in family groups.  He explained that as “the children had their children, they always send me pictures.  Most of the children on my table have grandchildren of their own now.”

My great grandma had a glass topped coffee that served the same purpose.  She called it her “rogue’s gallery”. 

There was a basket on the table that held letters.  Some old and dog-eared, some new and as yet unopened.  He would ask me to read the letters to him, and would search his tabletop for the appropriate collection of family pictures.  His sight was failing, but he had memorized the location of every face.  As new photos came in he would pore over them with his magnifying glass, straining for every detail. We would carefully lift the plastic and slip in the updates. 

There were as many as four generations in some of the family groups and he remembered every name and the relationships to one another.  Each face on his table had a story.  Some told of generations of association. Some were sad.  Some were funny. Some were of angels, some were of rogues.  All were cherished.

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