I’m typically not a very sentimental person. I can do without all the Hallmark Holidays. The only feelings I care about are the ones that are unsolicited and genuinely offered, the ones that don’t have to be coaxed or coached, or require an appointed day.
I’m also not a saver of any kind of stuff, really. Except for a few pieces of Cait’s baby clothes I think she’d like to have, anything not in use gets given to friends or donated. (Sometime I’ll write about my house burning down because of a propane truck accident, which will help explain why I don’t particularly care about things anymore.)
But as I think about my kitchen table having seen better days, and Andrew and I considering getting a different one that would also fit our kitchen better, I suddenly find myself time-traveling back through 25 years.
This is the first kitchen table I bought for myself as an adult. It’s the only surviving piece of furniture from the fire. It holds the history of nearly half my life.
Everyone I’ve loved and cared about has sat at this table. Even though some of those people are no longer living, I can still sit here and conjure those lively conversations, those animated evenings, those kaleidoscopes of faces. I fell in love with Andrew over many cups of tea and talks at this table. I won over my stepsons’ hearts by serving them up soul-satisfying meals at this table.
As I lightly finger the marks left by Cait’s baby spoon, made when she’d tap, tap, tap the table to some tune only she could hear in her head, I think that even though it doesn’t owe us a thing, and it’s never really looked right in this house, with a little luck, it’ll travel with me another 25 years.