My grandmother once owned a bistro table set. I remember it so clearly. Resting in the corner of her living room that always smelled like stale perfume, was the treasured bistro table with a single matching chair. She never used the table, really. Guests always sat on the sofas or on the balcony. The bistro table nestled next to the three seater couch, unlit and untouched. What was it for? I think it was a pedestal of younger years, before arthritis and high prescription glasses entered her life. On it sat a basket of yarn piled high, of all colors and textures. Folded neatly on the bistro chair was an unfinished blanket. Sad, I guess. That’s what I know of her little table over there.
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