CHERRYWOOD OR RED OAK?

Is this Cherrywood or Red oak? It’s not actually either of those but I’m wondering what stain my father slathered onto here one spring day where he eventually decided “I’ve procrastinated about this long enough” except my father never uses words like “procrastinate.” Now it's vibrant and comforting, that terrible, bland original color long forgotten and it makes me think about how inconsiderate I’m being by placing my mug of coffee down to leave a ring on it, sliding my flip flops across the planks, as I lean back in this flimsy, unforgiving lawn chair and try to soak in the sun. It’s kind of hard to do that, though, because it’s freezing and I’m wearing my winter coat in the middle of gosh-darn and the wind’s decided that today it wants to get wherever the hell it's going as fast as it possibly can.

And yes, my toes are freezing, but I feel that was a given.

 One particularly strong gust pushes my mug over and now the coffee’s spilled all over this nice desk. Now I have to stand up to get a paper towel to wipe it up but I convince myself that means I’m going to track more mud on the deck and make the situation worse so I think I’ll just keep sitting here for a little longer.

The door to the kitchen opens. 

“You want coffee?” It’s my mom.

I shake my head. “I already have some.” I point to the mug.

She shakes her head “It’s spilled. Again.”

“I know.”

She huffs, like how only mother’s can huff when they’re annoyed at their kids. “Are you going to clean that up?”

“Eventually. I’m enjoying the sun.”

“It’s freezing, honey.”

“I know.”

“I’m getting you a paper towel.” The door shuts. Then it opens again and my mom’s handing me a paper towel. I clean up the spilled coffee as she stands there, her arms crossed.

“Mom, do you know what color the wood stain is?” 

She looks down at me. Her left eyebrow creeps up. “No. Why?”

“I think Dad said it was cherry wood but I’m not sure.”

A shrug. “It’s whatever the original wood was.”

“Really?” I’m unsure why this possibility hasn’t occurred to me.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the original wood?”

A scoff. “This...color?” She reaches a hand for the coffee-soaked paper towel and I give it to her. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

“Why don’t you text your dad”

“He wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s true.” She walks back towards the kitchen. “Come unload the dishes when you’re done.” I nod. She closes the door.

I look down at the coffee stain, at the murky, brown hue not unlike the two others I know I’ll find somewhere on this deck from the past spilling-occasions. Otherwise, the deck looks great.

My eyes roam over the planks “What color are you, huh?” 

It doesn’t answer. I’m not sure it would want to and I don’t blame it; who really wants to look back at the past anyway, especially if it’s ugly.

“Let’s find out” I stand up, grab the empty coffee mug, and walk to the kitchen door. 

We keep paint buckets and stains and such in the unfinished part of the basement, so that’s where I go after leaving my mug by the kitchen sink. It takes a minute but I find them on the bottom of a shelf. And there’s a problem.

We have both stain colors.

But then on second look I notice the red oak is unopened, but the cherrywood one isn’t. 

“Looks like he just wanted both options.” I walk back upstairs and my mom’s by the sink, starting the dishes.

“It’s cherrywood,” I say.

“Is it?” she reaches for my mug. I walk over to her and start helping with the dishes.

After a moment she asks “why did you wanna know?” 

I shrug, “why not?”

She laughs. “Usually I’d argue with you that there’s better things to do,” she shuts the dishwasher door and presses start, “but I don’t think I’d win that conversation.”

“Me neither.”

She smiles up at me and then walks back towards the office. I look out at the deck and then I walk back down stairs to the unfinished part of the basement and grab the red oak stain. Hopefully the wind won't push it over.