“Whenever we’d spend the night, I guess it would normally be a Saturday night, maybe it was Friday, I’m not sure, but there would be some nights when we would stay over, quite often, actually, when we would go up to see Gaya for the weekend and then go off to church; we would stay the night at her place; I think it was a Sunday morning, we would wake up and come into the dining room find her and Mom or Dad, and remnants of a toast breakfast with strawberry jam in front of her, talking. Sunday paper in front of her, Sunday comics out, spread across a mahogany surface; I’d kind of sit there and sleepily listen to them -don’t know what they talked about, but they talked.”
The first thoughts, when considering Gaya in her dining room, are strawberry jam, black coffee, and newspapers. I’m really not certain why. Toast was a staple for her. Coffee was a must. But the strawberry has always held a strong link to her, even though I don’t know if I have an actual memory of her or just a vague association.Whatever they talked about isn’t even as strong in my thoughts as the crumbs between her plate and her on the vinyl tablecloth. Strawberry crumbs and black newspaper can tell her dining room story.
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