Back in my childhood bedroom, sorting boxes after Dad passed. Found the old folding table we used for Thanksgiving.
One leg is always shorter—needs a folded napkin wedged underneath to stop the wobble.
My twin sister and I used to play cards on that table. She was the only person who ever called me 'Peach.'
I turned bright red when I got embarrassed, and she loved to point it out.
I kept the football from my first season as head coach, but that table means more.
Every time I slide a napkin under that short leg, I hear her voice again.
She moved to the city. I stayed right here in this mill town on the river.
Two different roads. One nickname. And a wobbly table that still holds us together.