DINNER TIME

Tonight, my parents and I sat together for dinner at the dining room table for the first time in over six years. Occassionally, we've shared a quick meal at our kitchen's bar or eaten together in restaurants, but the dining room has sat abandoned. When I left home for college, I knew that my parents and I would grow distant, gradually losing the daily habits that had always kept us close.

But when Hurricane Katrina brought me back to live with them, I never expected things to be as different or as difficult as they have been. In many ways, we act like strangers, uncomfortable sharing a kitchen or a bathroom. So tonight's meal was remarkable.

I'm straining to memorize every detail of the evening. Can I keep this memory close? There we sat, pleasantly sharing a meal in the forgotten dining room. I felt like a rusty singer, surprised to find myself in the middle of a song from a past performance, struggling to remember almost-forgotten lyrics.

Six years ago, my parents' farmhouse burned. I lost my boyhood home, and I felt my life slip into a strange groove. Like a broken record, each year has brought another version of the same sad song. But tonight, I was nudged out of that groove, and my heart got to hum an older song. I couldn't remember the words well enough to sing along, but it did my heart good to hear its melody.

I know I can't live in the past, but I'm going to try to sing a little of that song tomorrow. Maybe I'll even write some new lyrics for it.