The first time that I went into their house, there it was. The whole family worked around it, although there it was, plain as day, in the middle of the room. I probably should have asked about it straight away, but I didn’t want to be rude. Once that moment was gone, another moment never seemed to present itself.
The next time I visited, there was a table tennis table in the room, too. Obviously, the table had to be off to one side, and it was difficult to move freely on one side and play a fore-hand shot. Their whole family quickly developed an efficient back-hand style, while I found it easier to keep my eyes on the dark-green sheen of the table and off the gray, wrinkled presence to the side.
Years later, I drove past that place with my own children. The house, the home, was long since demolished. There was no chimney to mark the spot, like you find with really old structures, just an unmistakable shape where the middle of the room used to be.
“Dad, look at that!” my son all-but-shouted.
I didn’t need to look; I remembered and I knew. And perhaps it remembered me, too.