On my son’s last night in the country before moving to Japan, I served cake at the kitchen table.
“That’s weird,” my son said.
I looked at him for explanation.
“It doesn’t seem right to serve food at that place.”
I followed his gaze to the slice on the far side of the table. It took me a beat or two to understand. My father’s place.
The far side of the table gave my father the best vantage point on the household comings and goings, and the brightest natural light. My children sat across from him; my husband to his left. I sat at his right hand.
He is there even when he isn’t.