The table is set for two. No fine china. No fancy place mats. Paper plates on the old wooden table. Mismatched glasses and mismatched utensils. These things are unimportant to him. So, too, are the worn out floor boards that cry underfoot and the chairs that wobble when you stretch out your feet - the ants that play in the corner. Knuckly hands grip a green coffee cup, bring it to smiling lips. Cream, no sugar. He waits.

 

Afternoon sun splashes through wide windows and washes the room's white walls. They are cleaner than they appear. He waits.

 

He will wait all day if needed. It is unimportant. He does not mind. Dinner will be a roast. Vegetables uneaten. It will not linger. No deep conversation. Just love, companionship - an easy acceptance of all that was, and is, and will be. The past does not matter anymore. He waits.

 

Footsteps on the doorstep. Jiggling doorknob. Creak of a door. 

 

The boy is home.