First attempt at Three Word Wednesday. Prompt: cradle, perfect, and snare.
She cradled her head on her arms, resting on the oak table that had deepened dark and light grains from years of gathering. If the table could speak it would tell a perfect tale of their history. The meals, lovingly prepared and laid out for the family, the homework completed while a mother dried the dishes with one eye open for daydreaming, the late night glass of milk to help a worried father pass the time till a newly licensed driver arrives home. The scratches from patterns being pinned and cut for home sewn dresses and the stains from the red candle that had been allowed to burn for too long waiting for an anniversary dinner that was delayed by overtime. Memories were a snare that held her, aching and unable to move forward.