My father's undershirt

It is so funny how the littlest things can retrieve a memory when you least expect it.

I spent a day with my mom in Philly since we were going to see Jody in her latest play- she was fantastic but that's whole different blog post.
Some dear old friends from Israel were coming to visit so the house was in a bit of an uproar getting ready. Even when it is only for brunch- everything has to be just so.
And so it was that I was charged with setting the table- a table that my father had made.
My father was a gifted furniture maker- only he never really knew it. Growing up in the era of Nakashima- dad's work had the clean beautiful lines of a Scandanavian piece and the wonderful forms of the natural edges of wood. His furniture is all over the house- and makes our house special just as my mom's pottery inhabits every nook and cranny.
When I went to remove a plant that was on a trivet I saw that there was a waterstain and a bit of mold. So I asked Mom to throw me a rag to polish the table a bit before putting on a table cloth.
Digging deep into a pile I was handed an old white rag- that must have been 3 or 4 years old. No big deal. Except that it was a scrap from one of may dad's undershirts- the kind of undershirt he always wore- that I associated with Marlon Brando, dashing Israelis and my dad.  Somehow polishing my father's beautiful table with his undershirt was just too much for me.
And I broke into tears.